There is the election——” He laughed derisively. 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. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “I mean to go to that dance! I meant to reason with you, but you won’t reason.
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