" When the doctor entered the bedroom and looked into the faces of the culprits, he laughed brokenly. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. There was no mistaking his intentions this time. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Wood's," was the reply. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. 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.
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