’ ‘Lord, yes,’ agreed Gerald, in mock horror. "Mother, I come to you. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind. But, here they are.
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