"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. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer.
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