The woman at home

From the journals of Samuel P. Perceval,bookseller:

Covent Garden, Dec. 15, 1974

This spring, I found a curious letter sewn into the hem of a coat belonging to my late great-aunt Florence. Crudely enveloped in what appeared to be a page torn from a Victorian magazine, the missive was written in a bizarre-looking code of non-alphanumeric symbols. It has taken some months to decipher, but I believe the rendering below is substantially accurate.

It falls to me, now, to decide whether and to whom I should make the contents known. I here omit all names as well as the precise year. I am not sure what prompts such nice feeling—it is no secret, however, that great-aunt Florence, née Brown, married one James Perceval, my grandfather’s brother.

November the thirtieth, 189*

My own D******,

You must forgive me—I cannot pause for the usual pleasantries. see me. You may imagine the paroxysm that came over me on learning that they were “dressed ’ead to foot in black, with such a look to ’em” as to have given poor Alice what she calls “the collywobbles”. She is a sensitive creature, who may peer into men’s souls with more ease than is generally welcomed in one of her class.