” He released her hand and talked in eager undertones against an auditory background of urgency and distress. This gloom was impossible. It had been her home for hundreds of years. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ’ ‘Success?’ Her eyes narrowed. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. He could not tell whether she was English or American.
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