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. “Looks like old times here, I see. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. The inn was a military haunt. They are their mother’s sons. "Yale? Why, so am I. It doesn’t seem to matter. It would be too mortifying.
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