" "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. And now you must go back, take up your work and think all this over.
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