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 never saw a man who wasn't. ” “I wish you good luck,” she answered. The condition of the rooms was indescribably filthy and disgusting; nor were the habits of the occupants much more cleanly. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. When she entered the office a strange scene was presented to her startled gaze. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk. Don't build your hopes too high; but I will do what I can.
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