Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. ” She shivered. “It’s not. 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.
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