"Your wife?" "His lawful wife," said Ruth, with fine dignity. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. 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. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. He refused. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do.
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