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Ten minutes later they had left the lawn behind them, and had passed through the hedge into the first of the chain of citrus groves. In front of them stretched some fifteen acres of grapefruit trees. "This is the worst soil we have," lectured Claire. evidently keenly interested in the theme of agriculture and glad of an attentive listener. "It is more coral rock than anything else.
Then there's always the chance that a grove may get so infected that the government will order it destroyed, wiped out .... I've been talking just about the citrus fruits, the grapefruit and the tangeloes and oranges and all that. Pretty much the same thing applies to all our crops down here. We've as many blights and pests and weather-troubles as you have in the North.
Slice thin, skin and all, one grapefruit, one orange, one lemon. Add to this three times its measure of water and allow to stand overnight. Cook for ten minutes the next morning and then allow to stand until the next morning, when finish by adding as much sugar as there is liquid and boiling slowly until done, or until it jellies.
Freshly shaven, tingling from his bath, with a sense of being garbed flawlessly, though in garments partly alien, Larry addressed himself to the breakfast of grapefruit, omelette, toast and coffee, served on Sevres china with covers of old silver.
Manoel had removed my unopened newspapers from the bedroom, placing them on the breakfast table on the south veranda; and I had propped the Mail up before me and had commenced to explore a juicy grapefruit when something, perhaps a faint breath of perfume, a slight rustle of draperies, or merely that indefinable aura which belongs to the presence of a woman, drew my glance upward and to the left.
He ignored the newspaper at his plate, and dug into his grapefruit. "Anything new?" he inquired casually. "You might look and see," Clayton suggested, good-naturedly. "I'll read going down in the car. Can't stand war news on an empty stomach. Mother all right this morning?" "I think she is still sleeping." "Well, I should say she needs it, after last night.
Dorothy Broughton, daintily manipulating her breakfast grapefruit, her shapely young arm showing interesting curves through the muslin and lace of her morning gown made by her own clever fingers looked up at her brother Julius.
"I didn't know," said Daddy, "that there was a place in our whole country where you couldn't live decent and send your kids to school if you wanted to." It was pleasant in the grapefruit grove, where the rich green trees made good-smelling aisles of clean earth, and the men picked the pale round fruit ever so carefully, clipping it gently so as not to bruise the skin and cause decay.
Anyway, she looks good enough to eat. Don't do to tell 'em so, though. "Good morning, Torchy," says she, chirky and sweet. "Wrong on two counts, young lady," says I, ticklin' her ear playful as I passes. "Really?" says she, delayin' her attack on a grapefruit. "Just how?" "It's afternoon, for one item," says I. "And say, why not ditch that juvenile hail? Torchy, Torchy!
Baxter was about to explain that his name was not Freddie when he found himself walking down Piccadilly with Ashe Marson. Ashe said to him: "Nobody loves me. Everybody steals my grapefruit!" And the pathos of it cut the Efficient Baxter like a knife.
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