“Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. . ’ ‘Nonsense, it’ll give Pottiswick something genuine to complain about,’ said Gerald cheerfully, moving to the edge of the trees. "Are you not that man's mistress?" demanded Mrs. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied.
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