You know—I worship you. 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. Ah Coom. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared. ’ He reddened a little, and shuffled his feet. "Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——" "We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short.
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