" "Why, what the devil's this?" vociferated Jonathan, looking up. I saw their boat swept away, and heard the roar of the fall beneath the bridge; and no one, who was present, could doubt the result. "Leave me, Sir; I insist. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. 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. If you could see how it gives them souls, women who have taken things for granted, who have given themselves up altogether to pettiness and vanity.
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