Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. ’ She spread her hands. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. 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.
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