"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. ToC About an hour after the occurrences at Newgate, the door of the small backparlour already described at Dollis Hill was opened by Winifred, who, gliding noiselessly across the room, approached a couch, on which was extended a sleeping female, and, gazing anxiously at her pale careworn countenance, murmured,—"Heaven be praised! she still slumbers—slumbers peacefully. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. If Jack Sheppard could behold his mother in this state, he'd have a lesson he'd never forget—ay, and a severer one than even the hangman could read him. Wood," observed Jackson, in a slightly-sarcastic tone. " "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. " "Does that villain still maintain his power?" asked the stranger sternly. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had.
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