His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. 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 was only just in time.
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