“Now I should like to know,” she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, “what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. She reloaded. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour. Do not disquiet yourself. She had not noticed such beauty in many years, and it almost caused her to weep. Well, I told aunt. But you couldn't.
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