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. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. His first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it still lived and was doing well. . She rang again with the same result. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it.
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