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Always as black and bitter as gall. She pocketed the sum total of his ready cash, about fortyeight dollars. The quarry had passed out into the open sea. 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. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me.
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