Their colloquy was ended abruptly by the apparition of Miss Klegg at the further door. What are you going to tell me?" "Nothing. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. But I will never—never return. 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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