It had ceased to beat. My death, probably. 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. He'd never forgive you. Here Marvel, the executioner, who was in attendance, was commanded by Wild to tie his thumbs together, which he did with whipcord so tightly, that the string cut to the bone. So dreadful were these shouts as to produce an effect upon the hardened feelings of Jonathan, who shrank out of sight. Don't lay it all to the boy. But I suppose as I’ll have to wait until you can hear me to tell you again. This man was apparently not sure whether he was Meysey Hill or not.
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