Master, your humble servant. 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. “Very well,” said Ann Veronica, with an air of concluding the discussion. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people. . H’m. To compare me to a starving pig. ” She sat motionless, with her hand tightening over the edge of the table, and he, too, said no more. “Quite particularly nice,” said her aunt.
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