She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. . She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. But when it came to broaching them, it proved to be much more difficult than she had supposed. "I haven't any answer for that; but I'm going back after her. 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. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. ’ ‘Alone, miss?’ ‘Certainly alone.
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