That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. “My dear Anna,” he answered. Don't you see Mr. ” Ramage looked at her, and then fell into deep reflection as the waiter came to paragraph their talk again. ‘Me, I have a name. 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. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation.
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