“It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. "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 flailed against the doctor’s grip but after what seemed an eternity of kicking and flailing, amazingly, he had not seemed weakened in the slightest by her resistance. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady.
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