About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. 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. But, indeed, he’s very human. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. That's worth something to me; for I don't mind paying for revenge.
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