She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. But I wrapped it in that nun’s gear you give me. 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. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight; Such dullards know nothing about it.
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