‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. ” Annabel looked intently into her glass. 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. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink.
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