Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. "There's no outlet that way. His hand flew across the paper. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation.
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