Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. I’ve had it, Sheila. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. She walked through the walls.
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