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. She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the train unnoticed. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. They did not want her. "I must go. She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back.
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