*Polly*
I am in the grip of a desolation so vast that it swallows any tears I might feel like shedding. On the way to the modiste’s in Piccadilly, I caught sight of a cluster of people around a new print in the window of a newspaper, but it would never occur to me that the print has anything to do with me.
Until I'm on the way home and the carriage draws to a halt in front of a stationery store… and I see the illustration. Though I only know the extent of it after sending a groomsman into the store to buy the papers, the same papers that the butler swears haven’t been delivered.
I would never have imagined that anyone could be so cruel. Let alone ten or twenty someones, or however many have written all those articles, and edited them, and approved them. And then there are the people who
