Here a little delay occurred. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. ‘He just came. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. She had had to do away with many a leering foster father since she had started frequenting foster homes in the middle of the century. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison.
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