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She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well and cooked the steak so abominably.

"I'm not poor," Mary told her, "but I'm tired, dead tired, and my head aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him." "Have him?" Dulcie whispered. "Yes. I don't want him." Mills exploded. "What?" "I don't want you, Mills. I'm tired of being a prop; I'm tired of planning your meals, I'm tired of deciding whether you shall have mushrooms with your steak or onions.

One day I came up from the cellar carrying a hod of coal in each hand, and going into the kitchen I tried in every way to attract her attention, but she was busy broiling a steak and never looked around. Finally I got tired and said, "Cook, where will I put this coal?" Well, well, I'll never forget that moment in years!

The two dead wolves lay within fifty feet of the fire and Solomon cut off the tail of the larger one for a souvenir. They had more steak and bread, moistened with tea, for breakfast and set out again with a good store of jerked meat in their packs.

What is a br'iled b'ar steak? I'm hungry. "Such was little angel-faced Margery. Does she promise to make life interesting for those who love her, or does she not? "Well, that's all.

"It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave 'er that nice dress," said Julia. "My eye! she must have been a favourite." At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, and putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying, "Mind yer 'ands, it is burning 'ot."

Was there ever such incomprehensible madness?" "I hope they won't sweep away deer-forests and grouse-moors just all at once," the young baritone said, modestly, "for I am asked to go to the Highlands at the beginning of next August." "Make haste, then, and see the last of these doomed institutions" observed Mr. Quirk, with dark significance, as he looked up from his steak and onions.

I know well-to-do farmers' wives who do not cook what they call "butcher's meat," three times a month, or poultry above twice a year. Dried and salt meat and fish replenish what an Irish cook once described to me as "the meat corner of the stomach." "Half-a-dozen eggs wouldn't half fill it, mem;" she protested, in defence of the quantity of steak and roast devoured daily below-stairs.

Here they fed me, releasing my arms, and I ate of half-cooked aurochs steak and a stew which may have been made of snakes, for many of the long, round pieces of meat suggested them most nauseatingly.

I felt one of the men take hold of my feet, and then I threw the sheet off my face and in a hoarse voice I said, "Say, Mr. Body-snotcher, you can postpone the funeral and bring me a porter-house steak and some fried potatoes." Well, nobody ever saw a couple of men fall over themselves and turn pale, as those fellows did.

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