Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. I was rude and stupid. ’ Releasing her, he turned and walked swiftly towards the door. He smiled. I cannot go on. I offered myself as a clerk, as a milliner, as a shop girl. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. He had seldom been more perturbed. "Help!—help, Mr.
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