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. ’ She shrugged fatalistically. " "Better she die by her own hand, than by that monster's," cried Jack, brandishing the bar. She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. "Wretch!" cried Jack. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture.
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