She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. We’ll go to the shops. 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. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. I felt his heart. She felt she must fly before it and could no longer do so. He installed Anna in a comfortable easy chair, and placed his own between her and the door.
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