I mean my cut-offs and boots. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. ‘Don’t lose your temper again. 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. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. “Smirched!.
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