"I was," answered Sheppard. She prevaricated. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. ” She thought more and more along that line. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered.
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