"I can't," answered Blueskin. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. 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. It did not seem quite fair. Lucy slipped upstairs silently. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine.
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