It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. 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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