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. I’m very resourceful, you know. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered.
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