Everyone has gone away again, so that I can do so all alone. 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. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. After all, you may easily come to fetch Mrs Ibstock when you need her. She could not say to Michelle that the Vorsack house had more than just a little tinge of “bad”. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped.
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