Predictably, Charvill turned on him. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. 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 will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice.
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