My dear Booke,
It is December. I think I will be spending Christmas alone here in this terrible, empty house. I have heard nothing from Lady Durand. I have heard nothing from Catherine. I think our friendship is over indeed, and I will ever be alone.
My shoes have sold well, and I have also sold many handkerchiefs. Mme Allard grudgingly agrees that my designs are better than hers, and she has begun allowing me a free hand with some of her most expensive dresses. I have accumulated some savings. But none of this gives me any pleasure.
My isolation in this house is driving me mad. I never thought I would miss Master Howard, but I confess that I would even welcome the sight of him, I am so lonely and desperate for a friendly face.
It is strange that I had no inkling of how lonely I would
