" "Save us!" exclaimed Wood. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. And I want you for myself—for my wife. ’ He only laughed. All the turnkeys were assembled. 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 had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her. He came to her and stood before her, waiting, the morning light dazzling his eyes. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt.
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