She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. —Providence, I mean—HAS arranged it so that men will keep you, more or less. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. “Are you feeling okay?” “Just fine. " "You mustn't talk. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. You observe that I am, as usual, fairly cheerful, and moderately amiable. My Dad doesn’t want it necessarily, but he realizes that if he doesn’t give my 185 Mom this one it’s divorce for sure. “She must go her own way. “Or I wouldn’t have said anything about it. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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