“I have the right to be here. Do you think we could manage that old clothesman between us, if we got out of this box?" "I'd manage him myself, if my arms were free," replied Thames, boldly. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. 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. Your own safety—the child's safety—depends upon your candour. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe.
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