“I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. ‘You are extremely empty-headed, Lucy. ” For a moment she was grave. 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 paused, and not without malice. “Oh, please. We were going at a mad pace. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. It throbs cruelly. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. So she married him.
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