“I promise, Lucy. ‘You put that thing away now, missie. It isn’t illusions—for us. His figure was tall and commanding, and the expression of his countenance (though somewhat disturbed by his recent exertion) was resolute and stern. But all those empty years!… My heart was hot. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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