Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Then he goes stony, and beats his way around the islands for another three months. "I never told anybody," she went on. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes.
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