Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. It was Blueskin. Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. ‘Never would he have gone to England. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens.
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