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 touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. “I’m being honest with you. ” “But how?” He was, she thought, a little too insistent. " Man is a peculiar animal. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him.
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