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. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. Furiously, she dashed his hands away.
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