His hand traveled below her loose neckline, and he cupped her round breast in his hand. 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. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. It was Celeste’s idea. ‘You obstinate little devil. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. “I cannot part with you.
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