Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman. She felt sharp animal teeth pierce her above her shoulder. 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. All her pride raged at me. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. It filled his thoughts for the rest of the day, and became an obsession.
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