The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. " "A miniature! Of whom?" "That I can't say," replied Jack, mysteriously. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. Prudence shook her head. I did not know what I was saying.
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