" "Shall we do so?" whispered Winifred to her father. 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. "This is our last transaction together. Humph. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. “Yes. And if he would, I would not subject him to the annoyance.
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