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. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. " "What's he know about copra and native talk?" "Nothing, probably; but I'll wager he'll pick it all up fast enough. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face.
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