About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. He was also aware that all his arguments would shatter themselves against her resolutions. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. ” He consumed Irish stew for some moments. Take a room!” “I say!” said Constance. Good night. “Great!” Cathy squealed. “I do not understand.
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