" "Oh, no!" Ruth protested. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. She flew to the door, but returned the next minute, looking deeply disappointed, and bringing the intelligence that it was "only Mrs. Courtlaw, is it not,” she remarked, with lifted eyebrows. Imagine any one on this side refusing fifty bucks! Well, I'll be toddling along. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. I don’t care what else there is in the world.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjExNy45Mi4xOTkgLSAxMy0wNi0yMDI0IDIxOjE5OjU3IC0gNTMwMDc3OTgx
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