Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. The assemblage which was gathered together was almost countless. It was a reputation by no means deserved. “I want to be your friend,” he said. The door leaned inward. “I don’t think you see,” she replied, with tears on her cheeks, and her brows knitting, “how it shames and, ah!—disgraces me—AH TISHU!” She put down the tray with a concussion on her toilet-table.
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