Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. I was reduced to 170 a fool, for there were many pretty women from all walks of life in that teeming city. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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