I've come to take you back home. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. ” He said as Cathy took his coat and alternately handed him back his bouquet of red roses. 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. "Whatever your intelligence may be I will strive to bear it.
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