A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. Her sensitive ears could hear her foster mother snoring in front of the television. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. 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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