‘Bête!’ Gerald caught her hand as she pulled it back to deliver another blow. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. 1 through 1. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. 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. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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