Even there a woman never gets a fair chance. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. He moaned. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. He smiled complacently. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. That's the way it goes. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows.
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