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But she had loved the man. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. O'Higgins mounted the stairs, his step extraordinarily light for one so heavy. 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. . . Take care of yourselves, gentlemen, and your governor will take care of you. She refused coffee, though she knew that anyhow she was doomed to a sleepless night.
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