" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. ’ ‘What are you about now, child?’ demanded Martha apprehensively. ” “If you do not leave the room at once,” Anna answered calmly, “I shall ring the bell for a policeman. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. " Out of nowhere Ruth heard her voice saying: "I will see to that.
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