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’ A little sigh escaped her. “No!” Michelle said too eagerly. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. ’ The lad Kimble moved swiftly to the door and walked out of the room. It could not be she who had done this. She was frightfully hungry. 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. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable.

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