Dear Mother,

I had a letter from Father a week or so ago (it reached me today, being addressed to my house in London, where it sat before Mrs Beale sent on to me here); I guess by this time he has sent one to you, it being his his usual practice. I would ask you to disregard. It's my understanding from Kilmister there is no need or want in that shambles Father calls his household (almost would be better if the Monks still resided there); it being near mid-month, he is very likely again at the point of needing to ration his wine; reduction of his daily tippling from six bottles to four always triggers these dramaticall effusions. Pray do not advance him so much as a penny. If he should again see ghosts and illusions, and his shouts wake the fear of Black Shuck in every soul across the Fen, he should reflect on his own intemperance, not the neglect of you or I.