He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. It was a different world. 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. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her.
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