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. As usual the substantive sister—Prudence—did all the talking for the pair; Angelina, the shadow, offered only her submitting nods. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. ‘Only me name,’ Kimble said apologetically.
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