“I said that at the Zoo, and I mean it. Almost had Martha won out. 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. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. No doubt there’s some little mistake. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Capes sat watching and admiring her, and then he fell praising the day and fortune and their love for each other.
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