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. Daughters were in the air that day. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. They were exquisite. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely. "You have defied me, and shall feel my power. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour.
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