There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “I killed him. I have only seen your sister for a very brief time, and I am a little past the age when a man does headstrong things. ‘But what way, Emile?’ ‘Your family, mademoiselle, the family of your father. 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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