Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. 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. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed. Sheppard, struggling to get free. Ann Veronica surveyed his sloping back for a moment, and then drew her microscope toward her. “You think that this is all. ‘For my part, I am in no hurry to end this exciting little adventure. "Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears.
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