Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. "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. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love.
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