She laughed. Give way, and let us render what assistance we can to the poor wretch. Ruth was at that stage where the absorption of facts is great, but where the mental digestion is not quite equal to the task. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city. But also this must not go on. It'll be advertised to-morrow. 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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