Lucy felt herself go very red in the cheeks and lowered her hand rather slowly. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. 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. She cried and sobbed in fits. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words.
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