“But if you knew anything of that—” “I did. 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 can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap.
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