A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. “Ugh!” she said. ’ She giggled suddenly. Father— dead. “You have put all your life in my hands,” he declared. Listen, it is I. If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. 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. Such pretty manners, she thought. He picked her up outside her last period Ceramics class.
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