Three times she escaped. 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 had brought the shrubs down from Syria, and, strangely enough, they had prospered. Reaching the panel, she was able with the aid of her lantern to find the lever at once.
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