He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass. ‘Indeed?’ Gerald grinned. She passed down the stairs and into the street. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. She could even think of what had happened. 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.
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