” “I will tell her,” Anna promised. 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. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. I am yours for the making over. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. Heaven knows why! They don’t marry most of us off now until high up in the twenties.
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