" "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. . If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. 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.
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