Wood," she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter's arm, "promise it me. ” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. He'd never forgive you. None presented themselves to save him from that return. He is the kind of man who would much prefer a little dust in his eyes. 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. His spirits revived, and encouraging himself with the idea that the present impediment, though the greatest, was the last, he set himself seriously to consider how it might best be overcome. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom.
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