<em>Violet Edwards &amp; Louis Benedict, in the Library</em><br/><br/>Miss Edwards almost smiled at seeing the chicken scratchings. "Goodness," she said, "we shall certainly have to work on their penmanship. I shall add it to our lessons." Her own writing hand was a trifle ornate, her capitals resembling illuminated latters, but otherwise unimpeachable. "It may be well and good for our betters to write in hieroglyphics, but our young ladies need every possible advantage to be taken seriously. ...I shall start tomorrow with Evie and Annalisa."<br/><br/>She turned to the bookshelves, and after some seeking found a book of poems in Latin. She was not overly fond of poetry, however she wished to improve her command of Latin. Without a new batch of girls to mold and teach, she didn't have much to do, and she could never stand to be idle. "Good night," she said to Mr. Benedict, amiably enough. As a fellow intellectual he was one of the few people she felt at ease around. "I feel like reading in my room before bed, so I'll leave you to the peace of an empty library." She paused to give him a chance to respond before doing as she had said.<br/><br/>Her bedroom was beautiful, orderly, simple. She found it very calming. She often lay reading on the four-post bed with its forest green quilt of satin filled with goosedown, looking up at the gilded ceiling. It was called the Green Bedroom, and it was her own little haven away from crudity and debauchery.<br/><br/>(http://i55.tinypic.com/6zaecm.jpg)