It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. "Dying, Sir Rowland. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. Pig and brute! Yet calling him hard names would not help her. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. I get the worst headaches. 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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