" But the caution came too late. "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. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. Never mind. ” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip.
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