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'll tell you," answered Jonathan, sternly. “Of course he may merely have been telling her who we were, but I think it improbable. "Utterly," reiterated Jack, gloomily,—"as regards all I hold dear. You know how stubborn they get. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance.
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