Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. "I'm tired of the life I'm leading. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um.
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