” “A little pit!” said Ann Veronica; “a little prison!” “It’s just as often a little refuge. You will go out at once, if you please. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. 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. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. But one day he came to me.
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