Jonathan, though a very powerful man, was like an infant in his gripe. She had never seen so much food in her life as she saw at her own wedding feast. 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 knew she was out there, he could feel it.
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