I’m a soldier, you see. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. 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. At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it.
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