"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. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. White, who had risen to greet her, proceeded with a formal, and from Anna’s point of view, a wholly unnecessary round of introductions. Every one else does. The note-passer lagged behind with her. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. “Lucy, this isn’t funny anymore. “Suppose you call me by my proper name,” she said quietly.
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