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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 felt I MUST do something anyhow, and up I came just as soon as I could to see you. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 28-09-2024 12:37:19