She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. Here they remained till midnight when, calling for their reckoning and their steeds, they left the house. 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. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. Strange, I could never learn her history. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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