There was little fighting spirit here. 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. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope. ‘That will be a matter for her future husband to decide. The light touch of Ah Cum's hand upon her arm broke the thread of retrospective thought; and her gray eyes began to register again the things she saw. " "And what—what was your answer?" demanded the widow, eagerly. And the woollen-draper departed. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. He advanced a step towards her. "I have been very unhappy.
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