She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. She was consumed by misery and hate. For a second time Ann Veronica wanted to swear at the universe. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute.
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