She feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. 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.
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