She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. She let out a delighted laugh. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it. He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. I don’t quite know why. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Her eyes followed him. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. I mean—I mean to do what I can.
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