‘That is better, no?’ ‘Dieu. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality.
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