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Softly she rose to her feet. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. "No," replied Jack, peremptorily. "She may yet be saved. 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 was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice.
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