She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. 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. ‘Also that it was that you did not wish the French connection. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure.
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