Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. She put her mouth on him. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. 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. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.
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