The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. 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 often found herself absorbed by watching the tall grass undulate from the cave’s central doorway as solitary hunters prowled for buffalo and stag on the plain.
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