She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. The next morning came a compact letter from her father.
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