Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. 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. I admit it. "You had better let me convey her to Dollis Hill," he said. ‘What is it?’ ‘Er—shouldn’t I tell—I mean, the young lady, sir—’ ‘You can leave the young lady to me. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat.
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