Probably a sick man's whim. ’ ‘Ah, that is good,’ sighed the lady. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. And Leonardo told me never to trust any man. 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. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending.
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