The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. 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. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. That bruise will answer the same purpose. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. Wood, contemptuously. ” She came closer. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself. An old woman took her in.
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