The boy was coming around. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. 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. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. He did not move. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance.
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