Pausing at each door on the landing, Jack placed his ear to the keyhole, and listened intently. 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. Be on your guard. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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