“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. And me, I know very much of soldiers. 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. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury.
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