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Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. She had felt deserving of the punishment, as he had been mainly concerned that she would be killed by accidentally falling into the pit, but it was a terrible insult. Either she had been seen, or they were seeking the air. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. " But she did not complete the thought aloud. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I should like Mr. ” Ennison thought so too half an hour later, when having cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel.
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