"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. Wily little devil she is. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. And in the Avenue she had an encounter with Ramage. He spent a good deal more money and time than he could afford upon the little room at the top of the house, in producing new lapidary apparatus and new microscopic accessories and in rubbing down slices of rock to a transparent thinness and mounting them in a beautiful and dignified manner. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. He looked at her, hurt. You've caught the colour and the life.
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