“John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. What more was to be done? Frith’s investigations had proved fruitful, and the man was now keeping an eye on Valade.
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