But she was not to be tempted. She still had her letter of credit. She recalled him. “I know nothing about your wife. Wood obeyed. He'd never forgive you. Melusine did not try to fight her captor, for that would only make him angry. 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.
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