He spoke in quick nervous sentences. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. They seed beyond all reason. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. He had drawn a horrid picture of the fate that awaited mademoiselle when once the populace discovered her relationship to the Valade family. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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