The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. Vorsack echoed him. He was always drawing contrasts between a woman’s lot and a man’s, and treating her as a wonderful new departure in this comparison. “One moment, if you please!” She stopped short and looked round. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. You know you don’t mean it. 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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