“You doubted me?” She joked. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. 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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