It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. . 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. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned.
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