Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head. With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years.
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