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. One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. He started toward the dog with the idea of ejecting him, but Ruth intervened. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt.
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