A neat tale, giving little away. 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. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. With her foodle doo! "I've a toast to propose," cried Sheppard, filling a bumper. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. “For me there is no second turn.
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