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. So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms. They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. "Did you ever see the like of her?" "No," answered McClintock, gravely.
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