You shall know the truth. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. Kind of knows it, too. "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. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. Except for a few early ebullitions of passion, natural to a warm and romantic disposition, and leaving no harmful after-effects—ebullitions that by the standards of the higher truth I feel no one can justly cast a stone at, and of which I for one am by no means ashamed—I come to you a pure and unencumbered man.
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