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. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. That is so awful. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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