. She turned back into the hall. All the same, I don’t admit it. . "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. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window.
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