” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. 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. " Upon which, Mr. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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