” He said, his voice tinged with worry. “You see, I will take your arm. 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. But the possible attitude of her father she had still to face. "You forget that you promised me a kiss the last time you were here. It’s all right. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window.
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