‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. “I’m thirsty. She would end alone. "Where's Thames?" he hastily inquired. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. The Ragged Edge. ‘Well said, my dear. T. S.
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