"Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him. 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. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. Lucy’s solos were exquisite in their precision and expression. You see—I didn’t understand. Play fair with her. Her heartbeat quickened. She took up a book and threw it down again.
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