Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. "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 could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha. Don’t be late if you can help it.
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