He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. 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. It’s—it’s a social difference. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. The Red Room.
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