‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so. My, um, my curfew. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. 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. “Where am I?” he muttered.
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