In a momentary fury she seized and tore in pieces the study which remained upon the easel. At that a new element poured into her excitement, an element of wild disgust and terror. 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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