Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life. 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. “Call me Cathy, John. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Brown was not a blind man and had assiduously observed many a student soap opera over the years. .
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