. Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. She controlled herself, and answered meekly, “No. 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. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. Do not believe it, Madam. All my personal effects to be left in charge of the nearest American Consulate. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. It was difficult to get right. It was clear it must be to-morrow.
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