"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. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. It is true that I do not love Ruth; but I swear to you, before the God of my fathers, that she shall never know it!" "I'll be getting along. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. He rose slowly and extended it. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Ramage leaned over the gate at Ann Veronica’s side, and for a moment there was silence. Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn.
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