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. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself.
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