She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. She could not apply it in this instance because she was not sure the application would be correct. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. 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.
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