This is clear over my head. At least, I hope so for his sake as well as my own," he added, mentally. 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. "'Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. ‘I think you’ve gone stark, staring crazy.
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