She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. 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. His assistance came too late. Always remember that. Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb.
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