Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Nevertheless, she was no fool, and she knew that they could easily break loose and cause her to fall. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. There's my thumb upon it. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her.
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