"My portrait!" echoed Jack. ’ His colour deepened. She had slapped him away with her free hand and the finger was released suddenly, sending her careening to the floor. Yet the fact remains that you do not understand me at all. 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 may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity.
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