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. It is with the building raised after this direful calamity that our history has to deal. " "Except me, dear," insinuated Edgeworth Bess. " "I do love him," cried Blueskin, "and that's the long and short of it. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice.
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