Cathy rushed out from the kitchen, all smiles, with Lucy behind her. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. He shuddered. 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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