" So, after a time, encountering the blot, she herself would supply the word Faith. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. I do, however. 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. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. I have given up painting.
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