Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police. 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. “I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. Do you remember what I said when you took me at the Mint four days ago? I told you my turn would come. But you have not finished surely. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. ’ ‘Was it yours?’ Insulted beyond bearing, Melusine lost her temper. ‘It is what my father intended. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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