Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She was, by certain signs, charged with anger, but she saw upon the faces of these two young fools the look of angels and an ineffable kindness breathed upon her withered heart.
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