My Dearest Pepin:
It is with great concern and discomfort that I find myself forced to write this letter. Early this morning, I discovered your youngest niece, Phoebe, in my personal bedchamber, engaging in a most disturbing activity. At first, I thought she meant to murder me in my sleep. Within moments, however, I came to the conclusion that the feathered pistol in her hand was not meant for my body, while the more immediate danger came from a strange collection device near to the door. When ignited, the device pilfered some of my most cherished possessions through a hollow tube, storing them in its gigantic belly. Sorely affronted by this insult to my property, I leapt out of bed, only to be met by a feather-pistol-brandishing Phoebe. Fearing for my personal safety, I abandoned the room to her mercy, seeking refuge in the sweet air of London at rush hour.
Pepin, this course of events has left me distraught and broken. My bedchamber is unrecognisable. Its contents (my treasured possessions!) have been cast in disarray, manhandled, or disappeared entirely. My bedsheets and blankets possess a horrid stench and crispness (which I am quite certain is not conducive to human health). My dear Pepin, I beg you to right this wrong. Restore my bedchamber to its natural order. Otherwise, I will have no choice other than to pursue legal action against you and your feather-pistol-loving family.
Your faithful friend, —