A drunken idea, Ah Cum had called it. 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. Inside was the blue stone she had lost in the 1800’s. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. Wood hadn't struck me.
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