What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. “She thinks that Missy is trying to turn me into a punk or a Goth. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. “One runs about,” said Ann Veronica. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. God must love me, for he has guided me here.
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