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"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. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t think I shall. He then tried the door of Mr. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. . “What is going on between you two?” Lucy asked. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. . . ’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.
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