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. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. But as she got out of the train at Morningside Park Station she had a shock. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul.
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