” Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. “You will come back, won’t you?” He nodded cheerfully. 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. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. I'm a stickler about clothes and clean chins.
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