“I was sick of the make-believe. 'He that woos a maid',— fol-de-rol—(hiccupping). Anna sent her away. 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. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. ‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. “Generally gets here about seven. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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