Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. ” “Would you like to be a boy?” “I wonder! It’s out of the question, any way. For a time she promenaded the room. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. But why did he turn away? "Wait!" Ruth called to her father. Don’t you think? Tum, tay, tum, tay. I think she might be up to something. ” Inwardly, she laughed at the idea of him trying to beat on her, flailing, his arms akimbo.
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