Victoria assembled all the letters she had been given by the anonymous writer and read each one by one. From morning, she had been doing this, reading them all over again, wondering who indeed the writer was. Probably Prince William. She would later conclude the thought.
It was already eleven, and no other visitor, or better caller, had come to visit her. It was only at nine when Lord Beming came in, with his glamorous but folded black suit and two branched tulip flowers. He was the only man who had somehow availed himself at this place.
