” “I will think of it,” she promised. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. 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. Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger.
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