You might even tire of me by then, you know. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. 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. No prisoner except Edgeworth Bess was placed in the same cell with him. Noiselessly, his booted feet stepping with careful restraint, he started forward, signalling to Roding to follow. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Maggot. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others.
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