“I suppose most people’s letters are queer. 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 he is kind of cute. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. ’ ‘No, sister, I know that, but—’ ‘You needn’t tell me. ‘You are there. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. And I get myself dirty. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. Footman or some such.
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