A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. 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. “Oh. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another.
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