After she had lifted him into the bed, she picked up the books. No, she could not marry Mr. Winnery and desert poor Mr. Blundon to drink himself to death. It was like turning a puppy out into the cold. Still maybe she owed it to herself to be hardhearted and forget him. She couldn't go on forever. . . .
Then as she was sorting the numbered sheets of illegible manuscript, she found among them a bit of paper that did not belong there. It was a sheet of mauve paper and there was a purple coronet in the corner and under it was printed Narkworth Abbey, Middlebox, Surrey. The letter began, "My dear Cousin Lionel" and was written in the crabbed and trembling hand of an aged person.
Bessie began to feel a little sick but curiosity pressed her and she read on. "I have taken up your case with your cousin, the Duke, but he is unwilling to do anything. He remains firm in his belief that you have disgraced the family and the name of Blundon not once but many times and that you have been at all times stubborn and unregenerate. I believe I am quoting his own words correctly. I have done my best to soften him, but as you know, he is a hard man. The Blundons are always hard.
"I have disobeyed him in writing you. He forbade any communication whatever unless, of course, you are willing to go to Africa or Australia. You know he is extremely close and allows me barely enough money to run the two houses, the one here and the one at Prince's Gate. Therefore I am able to spare you only the small amount enclosed."
