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. . As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. His mother smiled in return, an act that brightened her thin face. I came here peaceably, and I only ask for a few words with you. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. It’s the only clean way for us.
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