She hated living like that. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. 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. "His name, I say!—his name!" thundered the knight. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. She dressed quickly, pulling on white jeans and a red tee shirt. “To tell you the truth, I am a little dull. Having no more patience, I drew you aside to give you a compliment on your radiant beauty. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said.
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