Please find enclosed a photo of me, outside our honeymoon “cottage,” (a friend of Reggie’s flat), five hours after our wedding. It looks like I have a long droopy moustache, like Father’s, the way Reggie’s shadow falls across my face, or perhaps he’s got a squash blossom on top of his head and a hole for a mouth.
Oh, I am being silly, aren’t I? To tell you the truth, I’m a little bit worried. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe for one minute Reggie had anything to do with that awful business in Brighton. He was cleared of all charges. But you and I both know that Father would say or do anything to stop us from getting married. But you see, I know Reggie and he’s a good man. And he loves me. Please, please, please, don’t let this letter and photo fall into Father’s hands. In fact, burn them both, just in case. I’ll write again, just as soon as we get to where we’re going. Sorry, I can’t tell you that. I don’t know–it’s a surprise.