Dear Booke,
Since that horrible day, Catherine has told me all. Back at Claverton House, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and power, she seems to understand that what she has done was exceedingly foolish. Some of what she said, I cannot tell you. I cannot write those words on these pages; even now I blush and grow agitated at the thought of the antics she participated in.
But never mind that. The critical thing is that THERE IS A PORTRAIT. A portrait of Catherine—a compromising portrait. It is not finished, she tells me, but she has sat for LaFrance unclothed a number of times. She swears that she thought she was in love with him, that her money would take care of them both. However, when I pointed out that her money is HER FATHER’S MONEY, she grew pale. It had not quite occurred to
