Taber is the name. 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. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened.
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