‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. 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. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. So he resolved to try another tack. ” Another differed. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. She would have to leave very soon. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said.
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