He jumped back, cursing. "I thought you were asleep. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “What are you doing?” “Nothing.
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