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. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. The latter request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. ’ Gerald hissed in a doubtful breath. "What of her?" exclaimed Jack, starting up.
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