She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. It makes no difference. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. In fact, Kimble was drowsily awake when she entered the little bedchamber, the state of which left a good deal to be desired, even without the added debris arising from tending a wounded man. She never knew what became of her farmer after that.
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