She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. 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. He was staring at her, openly gaping. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut.
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