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. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. Rowland's plans were quickly formed, and as quickly executed.
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