“There is my aunt,” she said. ’ ‘Ah. Can I please go home now?” “Honey, I promise you can go soon, but you have to fill out some paperwork before you go. 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. There was a maiden aunt who lived in the North who might let her live there for a few weeks until she disappeared. He must know she’ll be at a convent. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. ‘But I was not there. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall.
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