Darling,
I am so thrilled to hear that you
found a wet nurse. Ah little Seymour, growing into a man while I am at war. And
your sister Magdalena is in town, what great news. The last time I saw her she
was barely clothed by the river where all the lads and I were fishing…a free
spirited lady she is. That was before she met that trout brewer in Ireland. He
was a strong sore of a man. She met him traveling, did she not? Yes, she would
ride horses and trains in next to nothing at all; she played fiddle and would
write stories on parchment. Yes and her scent is rather foul. Like burnt wood,
mossy fir trees and spices—it sticks to ones skin if too close. Ah but yes, erm
that terrible foul mind of hers is wretched. Promise me that you will not let her
gypsy ways influence you—she is a sore. Beauty. I mean sore. Darling I fear
that I am slightly delusional from the amputee medication. Forgive my wandering
mind. Take care of little Seymour for me.
Dream of
shaking hands with my genital, pardon, general,
Bentley
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