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Updated: May 9, 2025
This refection consisted of a wee glass of delicious Muscatelle apiece and some crisp, very rich cakes made by the sisters of a neighbouring convent, and as we ate and drank, a fat, jolly old padre, who thought he could speak English, tried to tell us about the Santo Niño in that language.
Unfortunately I became enthusiastic, and nothing would do but that the old lady must present me with several yards of the pretty stuff. I felt as if I should be tried for larceny, what with those indigestible fruits, the pink cheeked cakes, the Muscatelle, and finally the abaca. I protested vigorously, I even pleaded, but in vain.
There were peaches and pears, canned in Japan, and served right from the tin; there were little pink frosted cakes made in times prehistoric, to judge from their mustiness, and carefully packed away in glass jars for just such great occasions; there was good guava jelly and a Muscatelle that breathed of sunny vineyards in Spain indubitable evidence of better days.
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