On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. 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’ve got to run to get to my Study Hall. Brown or Jones, I dare say.
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