Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. They almost made me feel like they were mine. Not like my father. ” “I thought I explained—” “I don’t think you can have heard me,” said her father; “I have told you to come home. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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