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He stopped short with a little exclamation of surprise. But—” The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest. "Hear me out," said Jonathan. 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. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. It did so well that they sold it in the nineties. She veiled her emotion by taking off his overcoat.
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