” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all.
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