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 suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. —'They have,' says he. " "I'm no reader of riddles," said Jonathan. Wherein she differed but little from her young sisters. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. And now you know. She shuddered.
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