Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. 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. ‘Which presupposes that she needs to hide at all.
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