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. He walked in her direction. But whatever she may have said was lost as Gerald pinned her to the wall, the point of the sword at her throat. Which, let me assure you, villain, will not be so far away. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. ‘And me?’ ‘Oh, you’re mad because you wish to blow off my head.
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