She met him by the dugout after the game. 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. Very few survived her trials. I will dedicate my books to you. She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling.
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