She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. 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. ’ He took his seat next to her, waving the fulminating captain towards the tray.
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