I have been unable to understand the joy and frequency with which young Horace inserts fried potato wedges into his nostrils, but I fear they may become stretched one day, able to accomodate entire potatoes, much as Edmund has described his unfortunate uncle, who fell victim to a similar childhood curiosity for inserting objects into his nose. His case resulted in nostrils that were so stretched and thin that they hung over his lip and occassionally caught on his fork.
I hope that you are well, as I haven’t heard from you in quite some time. Please don’t be concerned about Horace or his nostrils, as he is still quite handsome and could endure any amount of self-inflicted defacement and still win hearts.
Edmund sends his love. He is still not talking with me, but he has thrown a crumpled note at my head with a message to that effect.