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. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly.
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