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. His arms were naturally big and his chest was covered with a smattering of soft hairs. "By all means," rejoined Quilt. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. ‘Now then, girl. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. No Cantonese was in those days permitted to cross to the Sha-mien after sunset without a license. But then you're an adopted son, and that makes all the difference.
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