" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. 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. ’ ‘Think Valade will come back here then?’ ‘Melusine thinks so,’ Gerald said, pausing at the top of the stairs. Yes, yes, there is no doubt about it. pgdp.
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