Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. "Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;—"very bad —very. By-the-bye,” he added, in a suddenly altered tone, “I hope, I trust—that you have not entered into any arrangements with any one here?” “I—oh no!” Anna said, a little faintly. To her consternation, the sound drew her great-aunt’s attention and she threw out a hand. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. His food lay untouched about his plate. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting.
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