Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 19-09-2024 21:43:09
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