You have grown into my life. You are NOT going to that ball!” Ann Veronica tried a less genial, more dignified note. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. 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. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes.
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