Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. 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. And now you are acting the cuckold, because I do not wish to waste my seed in your barren womb?\" She was too devastated to answer him. He waved a hand toward the sea. "I'm not particular about rooms. By a sort of instinct. I promise not to do it again. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's.
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