She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. How dreary it all looks. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience.
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