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 had chosen his time well. “But if you weren’t keen on the suffrage business, why on earth did you go to prison?” Ann Veronica reflected. ‘You cannot read my mind at all, monsieur. ’ Gerald infused sympathy into his voice, and deliberately addressed himself to Madame.
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