‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. 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. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. Lucia, you will come to love me and all the blessings of the Lord that marriage brings.
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