“Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. The girl in the forward chair raised herself a little, the better to see the gorgeous blue palanquin of the dimly visible bride. 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. The crown has passed from the brow of one monarch to that of another. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest.
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