” They went on for a time without another word. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. They fight over money all of the time. 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. It was partly to pay a grudge he had against father. "Why, so it is," she said, in mock astonishment. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad.
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