Oh Wolfie dear, we cannot bear this news. Mama was ill. Mama was dying. Mama is dead? The Abbe Bullinger has been and gone to tell Papa that almost certainly this is so. I have been vomiting on my bed. There was no black powder to ease her throat, no husband at her side, no Nannie’s arms to hold her tight. Oh Wolfie dear, we cannot bear this news. N.