Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. She looked down at him and was amazed to see him erect again, amazed at the incredible virility that he possessed.
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