Dear Gertrude,
I fear your letter may have arrived too late. You see, I too
have made a purchase strictly for the sake of a pretty cover, and a closer
examination assures me that this book may be intended for persons smaller and
sticker than myself.
But then, Harriet has informed me more than once that I seem
to be shrinking with age, and I have breakfast marmalade stuck between my
fingers, so perhaps it will all work out. The novel is called The Ghost in the Glass House and I am
hopeful, even if I have it from a trusted source that it is another American
creation.
I wish I could say I had more news for you, but this week
has been horrifically dull. I suspect that Harriet may have offended Mrs
Highmore in some way or other, but that is hardly newsworthy, for she is
offended by most creatures with a face and a beating pulse (and some without—I once
saw her give the most poisonous look to a stuffed partridge, no doubt for its
improper familiarity with the unsuitable subject of death).
Alfie has been stalking all over the estate, such as it is,
with his father. I do not know what they
are about, but they seem to be getting nowhere. As you well know, Mr Pennylegion has become very
good at getting nowhere over the years, but I cannot say that Alfie is taking
to his new occupation.
And please, let us not speak of Lucy. Yesterday, I discovered
her chewing on a grape from the waxed fruit display in the sitting room. You know the one.
With love,
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