She was not a Christian woman. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. “My hand! This isn’t the place. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. They will say that it was murder. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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