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. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. . “That’s. ” “And yet,” he murmured, “one of the greatest of our writers has declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex. ” “Then I didn’t waste my time in prison altogether?” “It wasn’t the prison impressed me.
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