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. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. He did his best not to grin. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother.
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