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. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed.
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