“Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna. “Stay where you are for a moment,” she directed. It was only a few months ago that I told you you must come to London, and you only laughed at me. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. 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. Italians. She felt her own body stir, ready for more. And not a worthy tome in sight. .
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