Fearful that she had given herself away, she sank back down onto her stool. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. She had never said anything so horrible to anyone in her life. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. Leonardo was to me nothing at all. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. He stared at her breasts while he touched them. 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. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face.
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