She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. "Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. Such a beautiful boy he is, but his intelligence is marginal. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. She disengaged her hands and stood up. 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. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. The night was now profoundly dark. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. Too late now.
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