I am the cause of his ill-usage. 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. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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