"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. “I heard your voices, and the hall is draughty. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. It still failed in something. ” She said under her breath. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. “That’s a weird name. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion.
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