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But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. 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. Mr. " "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. After a little further discourse the old man took his departure.
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