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. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. F. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. There never is much left for me. I have suffered too much from your treachery.
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