Part 4 After a day or so she thought more steadily. 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. With a loud shout, and headed by a powerfully-built man, with a face as black as that of a mulatto, and armed with a cutlass, the rabble leapt over the barricades, and rushed towards the vehicle. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. But he was wide awake. "Of yourself," he replied, in a mournful tone. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Her sister’s words were true. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it.
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