“Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “Not to-night,” she said. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. " And he pointed significantly to the hand. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. 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. He recognized me at once, and he behaved like a madman. The son of Prudence instead was obliged to take her back to the convent on Sunday to see Martha and tell her the good news, and to fetch her meagre belongings. ” She sniffled.
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