She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. 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. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. Moments later, the movie began its gory climax, bass vibrating the seats with great bombast. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. An old man and a young girl, the one as stubbornly offensive as the other.
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