I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. 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. " "Be handy, then," rejoined Terence, "or, I'll lose my share of the smart money. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. .
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