Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. Jackson’s. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. She was the consummate mother, even when extremely tired, she missed nothing. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. “What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin.
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