Mrs. 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. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. He has no imagination, no real generosity.
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