"Take off these chains, Rowland," said Lady Trafford, "instantly, I command you. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. She forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the doctor's lessons and warnings. “I don’t see why I should take it secondhand. We must always move on. I won't have a beachcomber on the island. 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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