It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. There are way-stations—even terminals. ” Ann Veronica thought. ” “Well”—her breath failed her for a moment. 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. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. "Yes—what do you mean, Ma'am?" added Jack, staggering after her. His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. “So it seems that I was wrong. .
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