"I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. ” “You’ll never pay me. 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. "These writer chaps are queer birds. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it.
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