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. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. They fell into step again. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Good looks, with a melancholy cast, always drew sentimental females. But the survey was satisfactory, and she found herself presently in Room No. She had better escape if she can. She had been careless. "Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful. ‘It needs not that you tell me. ‘There you have soldiers. They will be safe. ’ She advanced towards him.
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