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. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. Immeasurable disgust possessed her. She was consumed by misery and hate. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. Wood!—no," replied the turnkey. “That is very nice of you,” she said. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement.
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