The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. "That's for Mrs. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Then her eyes flashed. Her mind developed into savage wrath at the present conditions of a woman’s life. He was wary of her, which meant that perhaps they had found one or many of the bodies that she thought she had hidden so well. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. You know all this stuff is insured. The latch came with a weak click. “It was perhaps my fault. "Bravo!" cried the thief-taker approvingly. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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