He had not considered this aspect of the business. Little more’n a week. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. The Night-Cellar XVIII. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. He could not permit her to remain in that position. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know.
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