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. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “Veronica!” cried Miss Stanley, warningly, and, “Peter!” For a moment they seemed on the verge of an altogether desperate scuffle.
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