Dearest Agatha,
I have not written to you lately because I have been under the most terrible cloud of unrest and discontent. My Father has striken me from the house and now I shelter, like a braggart, with the pigs and chickens, subsisting on wheat and water and the good nature of other human beings who pass me by. I tell you, the smallest gestures can keep us alive for longer than we fear, a smile, a stare, a handshake. Sister, coops make horrible homes I tell you, for a woman of my status, this has been the meanest indignity bestowed upon me, and all for flashing my lady part at the local exciseman - it was in secret, I thought we shared a mutual liking.
I hope you can forgive my trangressions and overlook certian foibles in the deepest recesses of my wanton soul, it was always my intention to become a grand Mistress in the large Mansion of your house, but alas, my fate has been sealed by my errorneous nature and poverty has crushed my manners . I am, in the realist sense, no longer fit to be a Lady. This is my shame alone, I realise, and I take the blow fully. And for you, dear kind sweet blue eyed Sister, I have attached the only offering I can, may it see you well.
Peace and good will to you dearest Agatha.
Love, from your eternal Sister, Wilhelmina.
My offering:
