Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. The doleful procession at once assumed a festive character. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit. ” “You! Why, you have been an angel to her,” he exclaimed impatiently. Gerald crossed back to the window. ” He writhed.
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