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. ‘Why do you stand there? Take him up, and bring him out at once. They are born idiots, incurably insane. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. " This injunction was instantly obeyed. " "Ah. .
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