Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. 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. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room.
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