” Capes waited patiently. 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. At first she thought that the woman was just a servant. . ’ ‘I am not the imbecile you take me for,’ Gerald said with dangerous calm. She left for good after he fell asleep. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. There were the burnt papers still in the grate.
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