“Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. " "What is it?" asked the poor woman. 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. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat.
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