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. Are you doing okay in that shirt? You seem uncomfortable. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. “You left the TV on when you fell asleep in the living room, so I turned it off. “Yeah. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. Jarvis did not leave a will.
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