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And, yet, I don't know. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “Well?” she said. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life.
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