Olivia Carrington lounged with distress, her body stretched out on the settee to its fullest, willowest extent; her head was thrown back in longing, eyes staring at the ceiling, her arm hanging limply above her head. She was too young to be so vexxed with woe, too pretty to be ignored.

"Why hasn't he written back yet, was it something I wrote?" She asked of no one in particular.