Dear Mother,

I trust you have received the money I sent last week, though Heaven knows how a man is expected to support both himself and his relations upon a scrivener’s measly wages. Respectability in this city costs half an arm and then some. One does not wonder why my ill-tempered colleague hauls himself about always in that tattered excuse of a jacket. Though you must not worry, Mother, I present myself well. 

The office grows more intolerable by the day. My desk rightfully deserves pride of place in a medieval gallery of torture. You know those, mother, we have seen them in the grand old English castles. Were I to lift the desk, my arms grow numb before the passing of an hour. Lower it, and my back seems liable to break any moment, like an old bench. By eleven o’clock I am in such discomfort that I almost cannot bring myself to ink another line. The lawyer, meanwhile, glides about most angel-like, as though documents copied themselves! I have not even touched upon my indigestion, which is inevitable with the abominable food this city peddles to those of modest income.

In these past few months I have made my resolve: I shall not waste my life as a mere copying machine. I have made several promising acquaintances near the Tombs and shall soon take on independent legal matters of much distinction. A man of ambition must advance somehow, even if the whole city conspires against him body and soul.

Give my regards to Susan and Henry, and do not trouble yourself over me. You shall come to see that your son wears the grind of success quite handsomely. 

Your son,

Nigel