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"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. "I'm prudence personified. 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 opened the purse and extracted a couple of guineas. ” Inwardly, she laughed at the idea of him trying to beat on her, flailing, his arms akimbo.
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