“You seem to forget that my sister is—married. 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. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. Let me say it to you. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. ” Lucy implored. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the ‘Garrick’.
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