It is picturesquely situated beneath a tree on the high road, not far from the little hostel before mentioned, and at no great distance from the church. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. "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. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. He had never wanted daughters. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. So the talk went on. It stunned her.
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