"He sails to-morrow morning in the very vessel by which I start," replied Jack. He was asleep. I hate this part of the world. 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. I do, however. He was completely, devastatingly handsome.
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