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. "What the devil are you howling about?" cried Langley. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Earles said persuasively. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent.
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