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. “Showtime!” Martin cried. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. In the first place there were not so many suitable advertisements as she had expected. Miss Ellicot pursed her lips and sat a little more upright.
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