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. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. A door in this house opened upon the yard. I'll talk to her in the morning, but she won't understand what I'm driving at. " "What faith is to be kept with a felon?" replied the woollen-draper, disdainfully. " "Take time to consider of it," replied Wood sulkily, "there's no hurry.
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