She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. 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. ’ Her hand shook as he took it in his, and she uttered involuntarily, ‘Oh, it was so horrible! They came like animals, with long knives that they use to cut grass, and heavy clubs. ” He too rose. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. " "Bless you for it. I have always had a secret crush on him, to be honest with you.
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