I'm sipping tea from a delicate cup while watching Lost in Austen and attempting to write this story of mine. It pains me to see how I can speak out loud in a language true to that of those beautiful times; but when I sit down to write, it isn't at all the way it should be. Maybe when Mr. Fletcher arrives, the language shall improve. Elodie shall speak for the first time, as will he. I can write conversations in the right language, but the rest is positively ghastly and modern. I look forward to his arrival...