It isn’t the same thing. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. 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. “Where have you been! If Sheila finds out, she’ll kill you!” She summoned a few tears to elicit sympathy from him. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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