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. “How did you find me?” She asked. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. ’ ‘We had other matters on hand this morning,’ Roding told him sharply. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly.
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