"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. 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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