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 could not love you else. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. Did he track her? She was unaware if he did. The individual twist was always there, even in the cleverest forgeries. "There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. "Nobody has so much cause for complaint as me," growled Austin.
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