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Updated: May 13, 2025
He was catering for a gourmet in Furneaux, and rose to the requisite height. The little man sighed as he tasted the soup. "What is it now?" inquired Winter, whose glance was dwelling appreciatively on a dusty bottle labeled "Clos Vosgeot, 1879." "I hate eating the food of a man whom I mean to produce as a star turn at the Old Bailey," was the despondent answer.
As applied to the earthly tabernacle of madame's generous soul, the effect of that impassioned address was ludicrous. But Felix recked little of that. He threw the hundred-franc note on the counter. "There, ma petite, be rewarded for your trust," he cried. "Now give me the railway timetable; for I have far to go ere I return, when you and I shall crack a bottle of Clos Vosgeot with our dinner."
"To-night it will make you sleep. What do you say to a glass of Clos Vosgeot?" "Is that a claret?" "Yes." "Well, as it happens, that is the one wine I take."
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