The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. My wife—killed me. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. “Come to my rooms and have a drink.
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