They shouted to her from the wings to come off. 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. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake. And experience was slow in coming.
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