The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. 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. ‘Gad, what a mess!’ Gerald pulled free, and Melusine broke back, staring at him. He had chosen his time well. ‘Lord in heaven, could it be so?’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ exploded Hilary. The little old lady struck like a projectile upon the resounding chest of the foremost of these, and then Ann Veronica had got past and was ascending the steps.
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