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. ‘Not another caller will I receive this day. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you. Ruth's gaze wandered from the printed page. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asked as she shifted awkwardly. We dine at seven-thirty.
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