” He left the room, and she stood motionless, with flaming cheeks, listening to his retreating footsteps. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made 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. In passing, why do we fear death? For our sins? Rather, isn't it the tremendous inherent human curiosity to know what is going to happen to-morrow that causes us to wince at the thought of annihilation? A subconscious resentment against the idea of entering darkness while our neighbour will proceed with his petty affairs as usual? "It's nip and tuck," said the doctor; "but we'll pull him through. " "For whom, Sir?" inquired Charcam.
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