"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. He had looked at it before without comprehension. 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. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now.
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