” “Who says I don’t? Didn’t you used to live in Arkansas?” “Alabama. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. “MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night.
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