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. Besides this, the door was crossed and recrossed by iron bars, clenched by broad-headed nails. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. At length, about three o'clock, as the first glimmer of dawn became visible through the barred casements of the round-house, the rattling of bolts and chains at the outer door told that some one was admitted. He was in a position to help her. Loneliness. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?.
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