She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. But I'm not worrying about that. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. I must have been very wound up. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. And you, Mademoiselle Melusine, will support this claim. She began to think persistently of Capes, and it seemed to her now that for some weeks at least she must have been thinking persistently of him unawares. He smiled at Ruth as she turned away from the bed, smiled with both his mouth and eyes; and she knew that here would be a man of heart as well as of science.
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