There was something fatalistic about the letter H. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. 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. Eight per cent. It was shameful, but again, her mother had prepared her for it.
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