The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. 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. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. Taking advantage of his embarrassed position, Jonathan and his assistant rushed upon him, and disarmed him.
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