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. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’ ‘That is easy. Montague Hill. "Like master like man," observed Jack as he rolled the inanimate body to the side of the road. If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different. He rose slowly and extended it. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant.
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