\" That again. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. 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. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. “Am I becoming reasonable or am I being tamed? “I’m simply discovering that life is many-sided and complex and puzzling. "What do you expect to gain from this interview, Mr.
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