“Anna!” she repeated. 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 wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner.
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