Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore. 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. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “It is a pity that as nations we are not more friendly. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure. ” John took his hand away.
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