To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought. 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. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. "Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. "What's to be done next?" cried Blueskin, returning to Rachel, who was standing with Edgeworth Bess near the door.
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