” “In Paris, I think,” Ennison answered. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. 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. ’ ‘Like your father,’ Gerald put in deliberately. ’ ‘I like that,’ Gerald protested. .
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