“I want to speak to you about a little thing, Vee,” said Mr. “But the thing is, I want a job. Stanley in her illness that her husband consented to receive Mr. ’ ‘But it is stupide. "It's more than I am," muttered Thames. . . It’s just upon my lunch-time. Pity you aren’t under my command. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. " "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. After all, it was really rather funny. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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