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 did not care that vampire children are abominations. They’ll know. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said. Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More.
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