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Her head rose. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. 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. “You are so sweet, Lucy. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. ” “Very well,” he said. “They have all been trying to turn my head.
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