‘I must get a handkerchief. 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. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. She colored faintly.
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