I write to you today in low spirits. The physicians have been. Again. They say they cannot bleed my dear Mary any more, for it would finish her if they did. A change of air or perhaps a healing course of treatment at a mineral bath facility are recommended. Such prolonged illnesses, increasing in their severity as is my dear ward’s fever, seldom bode well. The doctors tell me to prepare myself.
My apologies, Diary. I can write no more on this subject. I must go and attend to Mary, and I would not have her witness my premature (and, praise God, needless) grief. I know that she is not my daughter by blood, but she is the daughter of my heart.
–Miss Palabra Puddlegum–