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. ” Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. ” “Thank you,” Anna answered coldly. ‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything.
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