Miss Charvill. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Hell's curses! that after all my precautions I should be thus entrapped. 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. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she.
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