They touched glasses and, once the Sandeman had reinvigorated Julia, they went into the dining room which, though diminutive, was furnished in pure nineteen-o-five style. The moment he set foot in the room, Valentin perceived an agglomeration that dismayed him. It was oysters.
Thanks to a crafty policy of silence, he had thus far managed things so that, even though they had just traversed the winter months, it should never occur to Julia to include these ostreicultivated animals on the menu. But the monster, left to her own devices for once, had made no mistake: she had chosen, by instinct, what he most abominated.
He had scarcely outlined a plan of action before the other three had gulped down half a dozen oysters apiece.
[The Sunday of Life, Queneau, R.]
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