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. She shot a sudden glance at him. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter. Like carpenter, like chips. And they admired Kent sedulously from the windows. It's fine with me if it's fine with Cathy, darlin’.
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