He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Gay. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. “I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. 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.
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