Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. They hissed me!” “Beasts!” he muttered. I saw them both. Mary is very good, but she is too nervous to be the slightest protection. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. This is clear over my head. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll.
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