"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. "Thinking it likely you might desire to have this information, I prepared accordingly. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. \"Ever thought about letting me do something with your hair?\" Not needing an answer, Shari got up and whipped out a vented brush from an overstuffed drawer. “I cannot keep silence any longer. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. . “I have come to tell you this. "And now, to your own concerns. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly.
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