" "Oh, dear!" simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. If only you knew what this means to me!" "We do, lad," replied McClintock, gravely. Her head ached with a hollow pain. 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.
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