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. "All right," he said. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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