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. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates.
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