Life waits for us. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. He pretended to be unaware of the mishap. So long as he lived, Spurlock knew that in fancy he would be reconstructing that scene between himself and Ruth's father. I am a man—of a sort of experience. 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. You’ll have to find someone else.
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