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. We’ll have some buttered toast. Can you wonder that I expect you to fulfil yours?” “I am not aware,” she answered, “that I have ever failed in doing so. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. “In any case, there is probably some mistake. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. Here goes. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles.
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