Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. 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. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. 1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License.
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