He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. 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. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted.
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