The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. 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. “Come this way,” he said. Thank you for walking me home the other day. "What I said about natural children doesn't apply to you.
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