"You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. ‘That’s better. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. Still, they bob up occasionally. The blood will rest on your head. Also she made little pussy-like sounds of a reassuring nature. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. He knew it was unnerving, he did it to everyone, even his own kin. 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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