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 tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. Then he rallied, smiling a little. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers.
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