He did his best not to grin. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. White assented. ” “It is an accident,” he answered. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir.
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