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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Cordelia Sutherland
The Bell [Bell Inn] A.[ston] C.[linton] B.[ucks]
May 9 [1944]
Cordelia my child,
93.
A towering tragedy!
I won’t be able to give you a glass of port on Thursday, having no one to bring it out before you come. Otherwise, I should have asked Mr. Barrance, (Fortnum) who gloats upon my photos and prospectuses and pamphlets to send me 2 bottles (one nearly decanted) of Sanderman’s ’27. I would run up myself, but the Cecils—they are quite dear—might think it rude. And I was ever so nicely brung up. Wasn’t I?
Now I suppose you won’t want to come. Pah! (I hear you say) the mean blighter won’t even stand a girl a glass!
At least I’ve been honest about it: I aught have trapped you.
Now let me go on crying softly to myself.
Your miserable,
A.C.
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