The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” he said. Something seemed awry. "We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. ’ Lucy giggled. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. ‘Least of all, one who takes advantage of another’s misfortune.
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