If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. 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’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined.
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