"Stop a minute, my dear," cried Austin. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. “I cannot say more. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. A sacrifice. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter.
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