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. “Exceptionally so. I give you the plain, unadulterated truth. She rose at once with a little exclamation, half of surprise, half of pleasure. "'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack.
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