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. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. That’s how it takes me. She wanted to take him in her arms and hush him, but she sat perfectly still. ” “Never better in my life,” Anna declared briskly. ” He beamed upon her.
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