Ramage. 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. "You didn't spend it?" "I never intended to spend it—any more than I really intended to steal it. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight. Voting wouldn’t do no ‘arm to ‘er. ” She repeated, as if she answered an objector: “A sort of blacklegging. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. The unknown, previously so attractive, now presented another face—blank.
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