My dear Booke,
We have just returned from a Twelfth Night masquerade, and I have so much to say to you.
My head hurts dreadfully, and it is daybreak. I want nothing more than to collapse into bed, but I must unload my woes on you now or I will burst.
Tonight I prevailed upon Catherine to let me act the role of her companion rather than that of her friend and confidant. I am ill at ease at all these dinners and parties, where men keep sidling up to me to say all manner of bizarre and shocking things. I am appalled at the liberties they take. One young man asked me to explain the words to a folk song that was so rude I could barely look him in the eye. Fortunately, the lady on the other side of me scolded him in French and told me not to mind him, as he was quite intoxicated.
Remember ho
