The roses were to be cut.

If he didn't cut them, Marigold would.
"He's been a-cutting them already," he growled.

"Before I came." Timbs loathed Marigold--why, I could never discover--and Marigold had the lowest opinion of Timbs.

It was an offence for Marigold to desecrate the garden by his mere footsteps; to touch a plant or a flower constituted a damnable outrage.

On the other side, Timbs could not approach my person for the purpose of rendering me any necessary physical assistance, without incurring Marigold's violent resentment.
"He'll go on cutting them," said I, "unless you start in at once." He began.