The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. I have yet another. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. Every one looked at Anna. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. And this is not France, you understand.
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