’ ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Sindlesham loudly, casting an anxious glance upon Melusine. 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. So good an opportunity may never occur again. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Not like my father.
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