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She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. . At least for one moment, it was. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. Lucy howled as tooth met bone, her arm clamped in the trap of Rhea’s huge canines. He had done it. 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. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. “I got your note just in time,” he remarked. " "I have promised.
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