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. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. ’ He made a pretence of rising and making a sortie to the corner to see if anyone was there. She crushed the letter in her hand. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up.
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