"'Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?" exclaimed the knight, angrily. She woke up choking and belching water. Let me run you for six months. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. 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. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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