The knife is at my breast. I did all for the best, I'm sure. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. She wanted to turn him. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. “I dare not,” she answered. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. ” He smiled at her.
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