“Now I suppose Brendon understands exactly what you mean,” he remarked. The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. 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. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. They fell in a diapason of smashes. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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