Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. 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'm having some unexpected guests.
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