255 “You have a very talented son,” was her opening line. If he could keep it up—style and calibre of imagination—within a year the name of Taber would become widely known. 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. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel.
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