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. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. It wasn’t. But if I were you, I shouldn't warn Spurlock. A severe pang shot through Jack's heart, and he would have given worlds if he possessed them to have seen his friend once more. He stuck to the shop as long as it was necessary, and longer, in my opinion. What he wanted desperately was to be alone. She found she was trembling at his nearness and full of a thrilling dread that he might touch her.
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