If this was a sandalwood pyre she would have thrown herself in and this paper she'd become would have caught fire and she and him could sail away like two birds.
I thought clay must feel happy in the good potter's hand.
she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
Who can judge another man's suffering?
How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?
I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.