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. It did seem germane to the matter that so many of the people “in the van” were plain people, or faded people, or tired-looking people. She had, it was true, accepted doubtfully the pen he had offered. Wood, popping her head through the window. He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. Wood, at the top of her voice. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads. " "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson.
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