"You've ruined my hopes. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. He’s been 274 lookin’ a little down lately. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin. 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. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors.
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