(I hope Mamma never sees this. Or it would be off with my head for such blasphemous language—if not already for writing to you behind her back. But my word, you bloody fool!) This morning Mamma took to her bed and Papa was abroad. I snuck out of the house to Mrs. Wallace’s boarding home, hoping to run into you—and reassure myself you were still in tolerable circumstances. Needless to say, every single one of my nightmares came true in that woman’s parlor. I came home to a letter that Mott had smuggled in for me—he had been calling for my letters at the Charing Cross post office, since I am watched closely. The postmark let me know without a doubt that the letter was posted after you had been evicted. But you said nothing of it. It was full of falsely cheerful observations of life at Mrs. Wallace’s! I am drenched in fear. Steeped, marinated, macerated in it. I beg you to please tell me what is going on. The truth cannot be worse than the dreadful scenarios barging through my head.
