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I’M shaken. 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. "I don't exactly know the rights of that affair," rejoined Griffin, with some curiosity. “Go from me, husband!” With a flourish he brought her arms behind her and her body was slammed to the floor.
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