Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. She said there was no other way to get them to stop their constant screaming. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. The figure she had longed to see came into her line of vision, but at this crucial moment of hideous realisation, Melusine barely took it in, her eyes fixing blankly on the man behind.
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