Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. "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. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. He had not had time to aim the pistol. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him.
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