I would like to say that I always loved you, but I am finding more and more that this sentiment is a lie… I only loved the idea of you. For truth, I thought you to be the purest, fairest maiden in all of England. Yet to my great despair, I found that your purity is sullied by the filth of another man’s libidinous greed. And, like a streetside harlot, you pulled your petticoats wide above your head for a man half your station. I hope you are happy being his whore, for he has little in the ways of wealth and only has a small plot of land to call his own. Whether you stay with him or not, I hope that you are miserable and that God crushes your deceitful frame with his index finger and thumb and casts you into the eternally burning fires of Hell. Good day.