The touch of her hands was pleasurable. It’s the rarest luck, the wildest, most impossible accident. " At this juncture, the door opened, and Thames entered the room. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. 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. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding.
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