He knew. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. And it's uncanny. " "No; it is only—what shall I say?—troubled. 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. We're lost.
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