I'd go for it. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. 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. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her.
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