The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. She thought me— filthy. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill. 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 lad looked alarmed. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. They had been married for well over one hundred years.
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