Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. ‘It must seem strange to you at first. At least for one moment, it was. This year—I’ve got it badly. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. 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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