"Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. “A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. But she had found it very difficult. 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. Sydney sprang up. But we cannot discuss this here. The boat rocked violently with the struggle. The touch of her hands was pleasurable.
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