"Thames, this is no forgery. 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. ” Brendon reappeared, followed by a tall thin man with a stubbly brown moustache and restless grey eyes. You say I know nothing.
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