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 preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. But she was not sure just how to reach it.
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