“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. 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 feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. But the aunt seized her in her arms and rocked with her. You must be lonely here with only a few men friends.
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