“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. I always told you some accident would happen. 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. \" Michelle was becoming upset, and her voice took on a tone of sarcasm.
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