But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. 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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