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. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. I was stupid—stupid and impulsive beyond measure to burst upon you in this way. “Only you are the woman I love, and you are in trouble. ‘Hilary was right. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. He went on. All at once she became aware of sounds outside.
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