"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. Taber's room at once," Ruth ordered. I'll have a peep at him, if I die for it," she muttered, as she went out. She was nestled under his bedspread. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows.
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