’ ‘Get on, Hilary, do,’ begged Lucilla. . 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. ” Ten thousand! Put that way it seemed so different. But the great point was still unaccomplished. She offers me no explanation, permits me absolutely no hope. .
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