Dearest Booke,
I am miserable. Catherine, my beloved Catherine—she is furious with me.
I have never seen her angry before, although the casual way in which she told me about her papa and all the cruel ways he has punished her for being born female did lead me to believe that a deep, explosive anger lay buried inside her. Only I never supposed that she would unleash this anger onto my head.
I have always been somewhat in her t****l, unable to add much to our conversations except to be amazed by her energy and wit. To be honest, I have often thought that she must very bored indeed to want to spend time with me, but it is true that she has no other female companionship but her haughty dresser, the woman who replaced her governess when she decided she was done with the schoolroom. I do not
