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” He stated matter-of-factly. Oh the back of her arm she found the faintest down of hair in the world. “Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. 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. Everything in the world had changed for her.
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