“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. 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. ‘I do not wish to be like him, but it is entirely reasonable that it should be so. I must finish it at home. Sebastian, as doctor, was constantly around the sick and the dying.
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