He suggested they take the remains of the household to his country estate, where he could at least hunt through the winter to provide them venison and grouse. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. 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.
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