But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. 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.
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