Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. And their monasteries and convents are still not officially permitted to exist here. I have it about me. That capitaine has arranged it all. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed.
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