Unless he has killed someone. 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. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. ” “This,” Anna declared, as she sipped her wine and looked around her, “reminds me more of Paris than any place I have yet seen. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. I could not dream of loving you.
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