So, I fear, it seemed with our various journeys to Ditton Priors, the village in Shropshire nearest to the remote manor house that had formed part of her ladyship’s dowry. As Lady Chase had said, her own nurse, Mrs Rooke, a sprightly dame not much above sixty, lived in retirement in the dower house, but the manor itself had been shut up for years, since the late Lord Chase found it intolerably damp and gloomy. We were not surprised. Hardly did it seem that we could ever make it habitable in the short time before the other party reached us, although they were travelling more slowly and, of course, much further. Indeed, at the very sight of it, Lady Chase, for the first time in our acquaintance, succumbed to an attack of the vapours. We had to convey her back to the dower house, where she was bustled into bed by Mrs Rooke. ‘For shame on you, bringing the poor lamb here at such a miserable time of year. Well, you have your reasons, no doubt?’ ‘We have indeed.
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