She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. 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. ’ He fitted the hat onto her head, and was aware as he did so of her eyes watching his face. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. Brendon dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. .
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