"Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. Something in her tone made him look up. He was a philosopher. The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. 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. Something changed for her.
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