” His shoulders relaxed. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. Michelle laughed, saying that she could only guess. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. 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 thought made her exquisitely happy. If you can imagine it, I survived it.
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