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 nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. It filled her with indefinable fear. Presently he heard her voice. " "It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. He was disappointed when Intermission arrived. Her parents have more money than God. ’ ‘You little fiend,’ exclaimed Gerald wrathfully. . .
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