“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. . Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. It was the incendiary intellectuals of the bourgeoisie, with their militant ideas of revolution, who had raised the populace to a pitch of violence resulting in cases of wholesale slaughter—such as had overtaken the Valades. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. ‘You do not try. Besides, he might hear things. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had.
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