The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. For Ruth grew lovelier as the days went on. They trudged and talked, and Manning struggled, as he said, to “get the hang of it all. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. You never can go back. “After all, it’s our honeymoon. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot.
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