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. “Because I hate you!” She spat. “Can you give me any information as to this affair?” he asked. But we cannot discuss this here. "You know this is a pet project. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it. ” “You shall not need either,” Brendon said grimly.
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