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He kissed her again. “Very likely. 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. “You must play for us again sometime. “There are two things to be done,” he said softly to himself. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her.
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