The soothingly bucolic view was a real-life Constable landscape. Sarah's pottery studio, her escape from the rat race, was idyllic in summer. Back to the kiln, moulding wet clay with her hands, she usually was absorbed into the sights, sounds and smells seeping through open casement windows. That sensual tranquillity was, however, infused with the piquant bite of sexual tension. First felt
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