Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. ‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it. 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 three young men exchanged expressive glances. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Father and daughter regarded each other warily, each more than a little insecure with the other. The first circumstance that struck her on her arrival seemed ominous. Her voice recalled him.
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