I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. "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 saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Spurling, squeezing Jack's arm, and pushing him towards the door, "and, don't come here again. They were bathing in the stream. “I am frightened now.
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