" "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. But they found him on the veranda when they returned from McClintock's that evening. But you must not imagine me wrapped in melancholy. 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 had to come in. The boy was coming around. You heard her.
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