Wood. Standing over the pierced Rhea, Lucy bayed, a long cry that was half-scream and half-howl. 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. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky.
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