His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. 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. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. White, who had risen to greet her, proceeded with a formal, and from Anna’s point of view, a wholly unnecessary round of introductions.
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