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 held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. Ann Veronica stared for a moment in amazement at this dark-green object that clashed as it was put down. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose.
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