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. In worldly matters Gay was not fortunate. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. "Your gratitude will vanish with your danger. ‘There are no Remenhams left.
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