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 love him as a brother. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. . We shall have a reg'lar squall afore we gets across.
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