Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. She withdrew her mouth and patted his penis dry with the bottom of his shirttails. 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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