It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. 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. She pulled herself together and put her eye to the eye-piece. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled.
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