I found a box of this paper at the back of a bureau so I must write to you as I am mourning for my lost innocence. It never looked like living. The doctors despaired of it from the start. Soon I am off to Venice to stay with my papa in his palace of sin. I wish you were coming. I wish you were here. I am never quite alone. Members of my family keep turning up and collecting luggage and going away again but the white raspberries are ripe. I have a good mind not to take Aloysius to Venice. I don’t want him to meet a lot of horrid Italian bears and pick up bad habits.
Love or what you will. S.
Sebastian Flyte to Charles Ryder, Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh