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. When she renewed her attendance at the Imperial College the third finger of her left hand was adorned with a very fine old ring with dark blue sapphires that had once belonged to a great-aunt of Manning’s. He would read the jokes and illustrate them; and after a time I could see the point of a joke without having it explained to me. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. This time, there was no doubt, she did not sleep. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. CHAPTER XII. E.
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