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’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. It was bleeding again. 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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