"On the way to the cutters," said Ah Cum. 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 nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.
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