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‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. But he didn’t marry her. 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. Wood's," said the latter, "since I find him at his own gate.
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