" Ruth turned back toward the stairs. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. Remember ——” Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. 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. Not very long, if you want to get well. I am your servitor. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed.
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