We have come to the conclusion, Brendon and I, that Mrs. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. There was no response. And now she had sent Jack away. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife.
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