Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. Other girls gathered around like sheep. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. “Is that all you have to say?” Michelle challenged her. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of— never. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road.
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