She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. 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.
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