She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. Ireton and his friends to taste it. There were two of them. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. Not very long, if you want to get well. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. 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. Before he could make the thrust, however, he was seized behind by Ireton, who flung himself upon him.
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