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. An uncomfortable silence followed. He wore a long coat, beautifully flowered, and a hat with a turned up brim. . If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. "Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. It is a matter of degree.
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