Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. Her face expressed nothing. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. 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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