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. ‘But I will tell you this, mon vieux. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions. On the bench was set a quartern measure of gin, a crust of bread, and a slice of cheese. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil.
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