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 tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation.
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