Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual. Reaching the panel, she was able with the aid of her lantern to find the lever at once. 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. Both of them. Lucy cried out, “There is a baby in the crypt! She has taken an infant!” Sebastian struck her across the jaw, sending her flying backwards. We were alike.
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