Monologue of Mrs Reginald Hargreaves in her Last Days

It was me whom Reverend Dodgson had wanted to marry in sixty-three, not Lorina. Daddy was furious though I thought it was a marvellous adventure. “She's only eleven years old,” he shouted, so loud that we girls could hear it clear across the lawns in the cemetery, where we were playing 'Who can find the most skulls?” My father's voice was naturally loud from shouting at the boys in his school and I have no doubt he brandished his favourite cane as he did so.

Ina was horrified. I could see the tears burst from her eyes as she realised all the attention had been for my sake, not hers. I don't think she ever forgave him, and of course father forbade him to spend any further time with him.

I am grateful, though. Who knew that those handwritten pages would become so valuable? Fifteen thousand pounds is a lot of money, far more than I ever thought they'd be worth. My son Caryl has kept the bulk of it, though he took pains to see to the roof of my little house which, as you probably know, had become a source of sincere vexation since the death of my beloved Reggie. Honestly, I've never worn so many hats inside the house as I had to before the sale. Still, it grieved me to sell, for I remember Mr Dodgson fondly, even more so for the beautiful hashish he used to share with us.