It was bad luck to go to Canongate. 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. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. “My charm of manner, I suppose. ’ ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. “Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. Idiote.
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