She would compose extremely lucid and honorable explanations. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. 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. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. End of Project Gutenberg's Anna the Adventuress, by E.
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