’ ‘Sport!’ grumbled her betrothed, but he accompanied them across the ballroom all the same. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. You don’t understand the fix I am in. Had he been trying to get her attention before that day, or did he simply want his silly pencil returned? \"I'm John. Can you come over?” “I think so.
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