” They talked for a while in somewhat dreamy fashion, Anna especially being more silent than usual. I am not afraid that you may try to make love to me. . No one will ever love you as I love you now. “But—your people!” she gasped. 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. ” The detective turned again to Anna. Do you remember your first day with me?.
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