"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. . ” He declared that no book could be satisfactory that left a bad taste in the mouth, however much it seized and interested the reader at the time. ’ ‘About me?’ The lady’s lashes fluttered and her fan came up. 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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