Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. 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. The man lingered. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia.
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