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The curtains which she had left drawn were open, and the electric lights were turned on. One did not use pistols against a female. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. 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. She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately sensed that she had said too much.
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