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. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. Annabel shook her head. "Mr. Quick! Quick!" The order was only just given in time. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. "You are free," said he, "that grating forms a ladder, by which you may descend in safety.
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