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. And now Ann Veronica’s evenings were also becoming very busy. It was, in his opinion, the most astonishing letter he had ever read. I’ve had the rarest luck and fallen on my feet. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. .
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