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. "I shall be back presently," replied Thames, evasively. "Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful. O'Higgins followed him into the dining room. We must never let your father know we went.
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