"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. "You are alone?" said one of the spinsters—Prudence Jedson. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. 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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