All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. " "There was Father," suggested Angelina gently. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No.
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