We were to live in some wretched London suburb. I’m not a lovesick boy. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. From time to time, however, he was baffled. 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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