Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. It does not matter to him either way. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. “But I’m afraid you are going to be in a hopeless minority here as regards me. "We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost.
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