She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. We have so much to be thankful for. 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. But men are so careless, there's no trusting anything to them! However, I must try to brazen it out.
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