This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. When he returned, it was always the same. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. ’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. Playing became a way of escape.
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