” His eyes were squeezed shut. 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. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. “No doubt about that, I fancy,” Meddoes answered lightly.
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