"But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother. " "You trusted too much to your own skill, Jack," rejoined Thames. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. 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. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone.
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