Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. ” She taunted. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. "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. Then pain entered their depths. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever.
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