"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. "There is nobody else. " "Never," replied Winifred. I believe he’s divorced. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. "Humph!" exclaimed Jonathan, doubtfully. "Get it over quickly," said Trenchard, in a whisper to the thief-taker.
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