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. ‘That is not your affair. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. "Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. "The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats. I was grateful. My nerves are shaken. You can’t go. "I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh. But no more of that.
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