” “I am rebuked,” she declared. 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. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. Someday I'll take you down there and have them rig up the coconut dance for you.
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