I must confess, I am a little shocked at your recent carelessness of my affexion. All last week, as I lay upon my sick bed, tossing feverishly as the ill are wont, I wondered urgently at your long departure. The doctors and nurses have even recounted to me that at the more desperate times, as I succumbed to the waking dreams that are the not infrequent customs of the febrile and the mad, I cried out to you. Alas that such cries were fruitless! No messenger arrived to alert me of your near visit; no telegraph was sent with even the smallest Barthes witticism to cheer me.
I cannot conceal from you how this experience has shaken my faith in the bond between us. Why, I ask of you, have you grown so very austere and distant towards me of late? Are you such a scoundral to trifle with my sensibilities? Or was my trust in you too precipitously (and, I must add, foolishly) placed?
I wish you to know that this missive has cost me many hours of moral affliction: though I do not wish to play the hysterical woman, I must know the reasons for your absence during my most dire moments. I must know the truth of your affexions for me.
Not quite yours in recovery,
The English Undergraduate.
Post scriptum. Enclosed is a clipping from the Illustrated London News concerning the recent assassination attempt on our beloved Queen. I trust you will understand my full meaning in sending it to you at this time.
31 May 1882