They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. 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. All her pride raged at me. Together they crept through the erstwhile drawing room and entered the massive flagged hall. I’m a little tired.
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