A woman indeed this to love and be loved, beautiful, graceful, gay. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. There is the key. It is at the lodge that we stay. 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. He had one son, who had been co-educated, and three daughters with peculiarly jolly red hair that Ann Veronica found adorable. "I'd rather have given a thousand pounds than this had happened. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. .
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