Sarah was her only child, and, although at the time of which I am
writing she was not yet nine years of age, there was no one in London
better suited to the adventurous and perilous existence that Fate had
selected for her. Sarah was black as ink--that is, she had coal black
hair, coal black eyes, and wonderful black eyelashes. Her eyelashes were
her only beautiful feature, but she was, nevertheless, a most remarkable
looking child. "If ever a child's possessed of the devil, my dear
Charlotte," said Captain James Trent to her mother, "it's your precious
daughter--she _is_ the devil, I believe."
"Well, she needs to be," said her mother, "considering the life that's
in store for her. We're very good friends, she and I, thank you."
They were. They understood one another to perfection. Lady Charlotte was
as hard as nails, and Sarah was harder. Sarah had never been known to
cry. She had bitten the fingers of one of her nurses through to the
bone, and had stuck a needle into the cheek of another whilst she slept,
and had watched, with a curious abstracted gaze, the punishment dealt
out to her, as though it had nothing to do with her at all.
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