There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. "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. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. . G'night, kids. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight.
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