“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. 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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