“I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. "Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. 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 told some of the particulars. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you.
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