"Be it as you please," replied Winifred. Wild's figure. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her. 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. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin.
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