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. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. But indeed that is not at all a good description of her attitude. He sat down beside her just as the room became darker. My reception at West Kensington you know of. Leonardo would not have married her.
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