. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. 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. How long have you been playing?” Lucy breathed an internal sigh of relief. . "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted.
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