‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. 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. She looked in the glass over and over as she checked for lint and makeup streaks. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous.
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