She twisted her fingers tightly. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. She took a few of his things before she scanned the area. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. 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. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. She could not help but admit that she liked being smiled at and addressed in the hallways by hordes of friendly faces. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. Part 5 The next morning she waited in the laboratory at the lunch-hour in the reasonable certainty that he would come to her.
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