Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. “You say you want a vote,” said Mr. ” “Yeah, they seem so nice. May I ask the nature of your interest in her?” He hesitated. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. Hill would have followed her, but Mrs. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time.
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