Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. Better they should find the so-called Valade. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. But it was only six-thirty. ‘Jacques? Oh, that is news of the very finest.
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