Her first orders were to summon the rest of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for Lancashire. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. 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. There were probably others buried around the 13 house, she had seen a suspicious working refrigerator in the back of the garage mess, but she wasn’t about to check it out. "Stay!" interposed Jonathan. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out.
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