Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. "Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. ” He glanced over at her cockeyed, and then returned his gaze to the road. She indicated the captain who had retired behind the sofa.
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