Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. 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. Submission to the inevitable carried her through the circumstances of her appearance before the magistrate. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. “No, you weren’t bad in the slightest. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. 4. Wood. A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round.
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