That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. 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. Day after day she pounded him with curses, saying that her mother looked down on him from Heaven and sent a curse, to which he laughed. Shakily, she rose with the sword and drove it through Rhea’s heart. There is a small yewtree west of the church.
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