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 don’t half disagree with you, Vee, really; only thing is, I don’t see how you’re going to pull it off. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes.
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