She was
sorry for Geoffrey, against whom she had no ill feeling, but it could
not be helped; he must be sacrificed.
That very evening she wrote her letter and sent it to be posted by
an old servant living in London. It was a master-piece in its way,
especially phonetically. This precious epistle, which was most
exceedingly ill writ in a large coarse hand, ran thus:
"My Ladi,--My consence druvs me to it, much again my will. I've tried
hard, my ladi, not to speek, first acorse of miss B. as i heve knowed
good and peur and also for the sakes of your evil usband that wulf in
scheeps cloathin. But when i think on you my ladi a lorful legel wife
gud and virtus and peur and of the things as i hev seen which is enuf
to bring a blush to the face of a stater, I knows it is my holy dooty to
rite your ladishipp as follers. Your ladishipp forgif me but on the nite
of whittsundey last Miss B. Grainger wint after midnite inter the room
of your bad usband--as I was to mi sham ther to se. Afterward more
nor an hour, she cum out ain being carred _in his harmes_. And if your
ladishipp dont believ me, let your ladishipp rite to miss elizbeth, as
had this same misfortune to see as your tru frend,
"The Riter.
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