How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure. 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. He laughed. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright.
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