A few minutes later Sir John left the room. But ——” A look checked him. 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. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. .
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