She could have kissed Cathy. Capes. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. ’ She stopped, for Jack was feebly laughing. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. 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. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound. The comtesse always felt Madame Valade to be not of her class, of course.
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