She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. 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 underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. A nod was exchanged. "Mr.
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