He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. Then, in a whisper: "But there's no reason why the whole hotel should. 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. " Ruth had read from page to page in "The Child's Garden of Verse," generally unfamiliar to the admirers of Stevenson. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you. Spurling, you're a witness to the bet. " "They know what?" "When and when not to speak. “My child, I do not wish.
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