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. The doctor had not heard from his people. This left Spurlock alone. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. "Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night.
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