These sisters moved in a grown-up world inaccessible to Ann Veronica’s sympathies, and to a large extent remote from her curiosity. . The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. 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. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. The latch had not fully caught. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father.
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