It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. “It is possible, mademoiselle,” he said, “that this affair is not yet ended. His name was Sebastianus. . 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.
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