“I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. ” She turned and fitted the latchkey into the door. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. 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. No matter how swiftly he pursued this riddle, he could not bring it to a halt. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel.
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