“Do you know that boy very well, Shar?” Cathy Beck yelled in the general direction of the lavatory. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace's best burgundy, as well as his grace's favourite housekeeper. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest.
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