" "The very face," exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—"with all the escapes written in it. It’s 180 endearing. I thought if you were living, and not captured, I should find you here,—and I was right. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. 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. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it.
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