And the woollen-draper departed. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world. 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. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account.
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