Mark you, she wasn’t the only one. 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. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. ‘Hollow. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. His sister followed.
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