Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. 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. She was honest again. So that Ann Veronica was not able to get the expert advice she certainly needed upon her spiritual state. good, miss.
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