’ Melusine turned, an irrepressible giggle escaping her lips as she thought of the Mother Abbess in the convent at Blaye. ‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. "Pish!" exclaimed Hogarth. 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. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.
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