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The Master lit the spirit lamp under the little silver chafing dish and heated some butter before cutting half a dozen poppy heads open and tossing them in. Poppy was always served after a feast: it clarified the mind and stimulated the tongue, and made for rich conversation. It was traditional for the Master to cook it himself.
Under the sizzle of the frying butter and the hum of talk,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], Lyra shifted around to find a more comfortable position for herself. With enormous care she took one of the robes-a full-length fur-off its hanger and laid it on the floor of the wardrobe.
"You should have used a scratchy old one," whispered Pantalaimon. "If you get too comfortable, you'll go to sleep."
"If I do,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], it's your job to wake me up,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]," she replied.
She sat and listened to the talk. Mighty dull talk it was, too; almost all of it politics, and London politics at that, nothing exciting about Tartars. The smells of frying poppy and smoke-leaf drifted pleasantly in through the wardrobe door,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], and more than once Lyra found herself nodding. But finally she heard someone rap on the table. The voices fell silent, and then the Master spoke.