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John Sairson's coarse face grew dark. No member of his family had ever ventured to address him like this before. Indeed few people would dare do so. The big veins on his forehead stood out like whipcord.
He glanced round the room, his angry gaze taking in the beauty and elegance of it all. And all belonged to him--every picture and every work of art. In sheer money the house and its contents would fetch a hundred thousand pounds. Men whose opinions he valued had praised his old prints and his furniture. It was all his--he had made it himself.