She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. I did not know how he would act if I obstructed him. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. 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. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. She seemed bursting with the desire to talk, and watching for her opportunity. I know all about it. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard.
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