Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery; sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the stews. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. She gathered up the chain, revealing a locket which had lain hidden in her bosom. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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