"Right!—right!" cried Jack, striking his fettered hands against his breast. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. 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.
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