Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. ” She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. 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. Sheppard.
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