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“Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. " Here the chapmen set up another boisterous peal. The doctor drew out the contents hopefully. ” Michelle looked away. 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.

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