For a short time they allowed me to share the warmth of their lives. 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. But who would pay the ransom? There was no one left in his family. And, when I have seen him pining away before my eyes, getting thinner and thinner every day, I have sometimes thought my prayers were heard. This is her first adventure. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. I don’t love you. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them.
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