"How?" cried her brother, starting. ‘Oh, famous. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. 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.
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