John looked at his feet bashfully. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. Wood—" "That's false!" cried a voice behind him. "Away with him!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently. 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. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully.
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