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. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. "Because she's a fire-opal, and to the world at large they bring bad luck. “Who will you stop with?” “I shall go on my own.
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