"The nurses," she answered. Ramage stood up, and suddenly turned the key in the door in an off-hand manner. "Where is she?" thundered Jonathan, who at this moment reached Mrs. 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.
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