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. Then her fingers moved. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. The guards, horse and foot, and constables formed a wide circle round it to keep off the mob. Her wedding gown! She wondered if the spirit of the unknown mother looked down upon her. She had not even endorsed it. Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every sinew in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats. But God did not put you next door. She didn’t choose her man.
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