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. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began.
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