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. Part 7 That was two days before Christmas Eve. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity.
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