"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. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. ” She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead. I would not think so of you, Marthe. The performance over, he relaxed and closed his eyes. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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