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. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. These were presently joined by a regiment of foot. ‘Not kill me, I mean. But that title he would not endure.
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