"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. . . “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. Jesus! They just wouldn’t let up about you after you played the violin for them. In the distance a bell clanged, and chattering broke out in the doorway as several nuns came crowding in.
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