"Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. And if you treat me in this way, you will have my death to answer for, as well as the deaths of my husband and child. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. "I loved you," replied Jack,—"don't start—it is over now—I loved you, I say, as a boy. . "Well?" he whispered. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life.
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