” “It is my wish to be alone,” she said wearily. " By this time, the chair had been brought into the Lodge. . 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. From time to time, however, he was baffled. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. II.
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