There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’ ‘Quite right. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. But they would not be denied. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. ‘I can argue with him very well indeed. ’ Gerald seized on this.
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