Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “I murdered them, John. You never can go back. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. You’re the only person I’ve really given good, straight, unselfish thought to. One only. They either ran to see or ran for shelter. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor.
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