Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. A Madame Valade and her husband. You have been to see your sister, of course. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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