I’m not a lovesick boy. 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. I have always been lonely. Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. I just never had anything else fun to do. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks.
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