“Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. 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. All this juncture, a thundering crash was heard against the side of the bridge. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. Not my affair, of course, but I think we ought to teach them more or restrain them more.
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