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 mean—I mean to do what I can. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls.
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