“How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She pulled away from him, placing her fingers on his lips for a moment. Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. ” “And that, I suppose,” he said, waving his stick towards Mr.
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