And it filled seven sheets of notepaper, each written only on one side. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. John’s demeanor shifted. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. ” She implored him. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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