Afraid there'll be a love-affair. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. 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. I have two days in which to earn nearly thirty shillings—that is with no dinners, and get a situation.
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