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. His attention was focused on Melusine’s transfixed stare and he forgot to say any of the things he had planned to say. "Not a moment is to be lost," whispered Jonathan to Trenchard.
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