"But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. “Mr. Mr. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. 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. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you.
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