"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. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. He was snoring stupidly. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. “In a sense—yes. "There won't be much left for you," he said.
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