She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction. 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. How Jack Sheppard got rid of his Irons 429 XXVI.
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