The villain has enjoyed his security too long. You were delicious in concert, by the way. 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. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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