Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. 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. In the subdued light she could not tell whether he was asleep or awake. . For so far she had kept it uncashed. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it.
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