“I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. ‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. 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. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. The mighty concourse became for a moment still. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror.
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