She heard the television blaring away. "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. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. It was an impulse. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle.
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