She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. . ” “It isn’t,” said Mr. But oh, how weary I am! I know. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Anna was afterwards astonished at her own selfpossession. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution.
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