He slapped his knee. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. His eyes never left her face. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. "Who, then?" demanded Jack. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out.
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