CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. 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. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. ” “I promise,” he answered heartily. Then he sensed the trap. ’ Oh, do they? No kitchen service? No feeding of pigs? It was evident that this woman knew nothing of nuns, if a certain young lady’s artless reminiscences were anything to go by. ” “I’m sorry.
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