The servants had left the room. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. He put his free arm around her and held the censer ready; and as Ruth snuggled her cheek against his sleeve, they were, so far as intent, in each other's arms. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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