" "Aye, music hits them. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. ” He plunged into one of his drawers, and brought up a small gold-foiled bottle. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. 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. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. And, in addition, she was now seeing and talking to Ramage almost weekly, on a theory which she took very gravely, that they were exceptionally friends. Well, what about it?" "I accept. He mumbled an apology and then stopped short. Then he got up and left her. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. His high brow was what caused all the ladies in town to covet him, it radiated intelligence but also something more primal.
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