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. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Sheppard, horror-stricken. 235 “No, I think she’s out sick with a throat infection. Sheppard. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. Why can’t you let it be?’ Gerald grinned at him. That capitaine has arranged it all. The annihilation of the Terror which fascinated her and troubled her dreams o' nights. “Your sex is a terrible fraud. .
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