“It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. You came out like an ant for your nuptial flight. 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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