CHAPTER XII. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. He drove to his apartment, a second floor studio he 120 was renting above a bakery. 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. You know as well as I do that it was accident.
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