“I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. 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.
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