He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. 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. General Lord Charvill disinherited him for his pains. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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