"I was afraid it would be so. 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. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. "I'll gibbet the rascal. It was his heart. And shall their wretched offspring live to blight my hopes, and blast my fame? Never!" And, with these words, he grasped Wood by the throat, and, despite his resistance, dragged him to the very verge of the platform.
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