Goodbye. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. S. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. But I mean to have them. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. Miss Mary and me, and Martha too sometimes. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions.
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