Her mother…. 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. Sir John felt and looked several years younger. Gianfrancesco never suspected that I had my own reasons for wanting you for my wife. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred.
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