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. And the opportunity to share in your exciting adventures was just too tempting to be put aside. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt.
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