But, not daring to confess his want of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She could no longer wait. Her head rose. There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash. Jonathan had not deceived him.
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