He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. Light flooded the place. He was now at the entrance of the chapel, and striking the door over which he had previously climbed a violent blow with the bar, it flew open. Another glass, Jack.
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