’ She ended on a note of sheer frustration, clenched fists beating the air. 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. “Yeah. It was his turn to express astonishment. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him.
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