’ ‘So I infer. ’ ‘Yes, but how are you going to find her?’ ‘I will ask—’ She broke off. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. 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. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue.
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