1st of June, 1894

Miss Edevane,

This morning my assistant had the distinct displeasure of opening an unaddressed letter that ensnared her nose and sent sparks that singed her clothing. Poor woman was distraught, I had to send her home, and I’ll be lucky if I don’t need to go find another. Of course, there is only one person I know who harbors enough childish spite to target me this way. It’s been such a long while, enough that I supposed she finally lost interest.

Rumor has it that a proposal from Master Flint is imminent. I wonder what he thinks of such puerile antics from a future wife?

CV.

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