She always dawdled, so it was easy. She and John were able to see each other many times and spent long romantic winter afternoons together. This lapse was possibly due to her apparent determination to make full protest of Hilary’s conduct. 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 doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. But one must disguise oneself. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. Wood, was examined. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again.
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