Don’t you think? Tum, tay, tum, tay. 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. His high brow was what caused all the ladies in town to covet him, it radiated intelligence but also something more primal.
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