Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. 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. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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