Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. “Is it your maid?” he asked. He stood completely still as she moved her tongue up and down its shaft. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. 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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