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A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free. 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. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. Sebastian traveled at seventy, eighty, then one-hundred down the freeway. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you. "Mrs. " He did not reply.
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