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. “No I’m not, John. He will not provide for the daughter. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. ’ Bitterness rose up as he looked at the female. You sent back my Christmas checks. Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined.
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