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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. F. Wood turned to look at him. But, after all, what does that matter? He is very much taken with me. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion. “Among other things, you know, I didn’t understand quite—I didn’t understand that you were so keenly interested in this suffrage question. But let the horses be in readiness. ‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. . ’ Amusement flickered in Gerald’s breast. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. I have Remenham House which is my right.
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