If she could have held it in, perhaps the Virgin Mary would have sent her a miracle as reward for her strength. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. 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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