” “You and I and Brendon get on all right, don’t we?” Sydney objected. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. She wedged the towel between her legs. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. 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. " "We shall see," replied Jack.
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