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. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. Selling out of the Army to take up his inheritance had spelled boredom to Gerald Alderley. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. ‘That’s just it. He envied her a little. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know not what villany he is capable of. Adjoining it was the Lower Ward,—"Though, in what degree of latitude it was situated," observes Ned Ward, "I cannot positively demonstrate, unless it lay ninety degrees beyond the North Pole; for, instead of being dark there but half a year, it is dark all the year round.
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