She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. 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. End of Project Gutenberg's Anna the Adventuress, by E.
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