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Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. His hands came up, his face broke apart. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. But he does not come to see me since three days, even that these are my affairs and one could think that he would tell it to me if there is news, no?’ ‘When he has news to tell he will come, child, trust me,’ the old lady assured her. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. Nor had Jack been idle all this time.
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