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. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. Wood with the circumstances, and putting him upon his guard against the possibility of an attack. A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. ” She slipped on her cloak and stepped into the hansom with him.
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