Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. " "He shuddered when he drank. "'You've a long journey before you. “But how can you?” asked Constance.
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