"He has passed this way," cried Jonathan, exultingly; "I have him safe enough. 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. They trudged along a little hungry, because of the fruitarian refreshments, and mentally very active.
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