” She replied dryly. Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. 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. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. ” He said, sucking down some Pepsi. In a few minutes, an appalling change was perceptible. A fever of shame ran through her being. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. Tell me that again. .
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