A stiff, formally-cut coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth, with rows of plate buttons, each of the size of a crown piece, on the sleeves, pockets, and skirts, reached the middle of his legs; and his costume was completed by the silver-hilted sword at his side, and the laced hat under his left arm. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair.
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