Holcroft, we may have been mistaken. Cathy threw Mike a look. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. The fates are never so kind to me. 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.
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