gutenberg. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. "What do you want with me?" "A word in private," replied the other. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. 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.
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