Fabian accepted the little half-glass, delighted his uncle had allowed him that small enjoyment. He had medicinal glasses of alcohol twice, sometimes three times a day, but those were prescribed by a doctor and tended to taste like a bouquet of flowers or were made of restoratives like poppy juice.
He took a sip of his drink, hiding his frown. He wished sometimes that his uncle allowed him to make his own mind up about what would be bad for his heart. Sometimes he thought his uncle used his ill health as an excuse to keep Fabian from things he disagreed with but then Mrs. Rochester sounded so upset when she talked about her son’s writing that he considered his uncle was probably correct about keeping the books away from him.
“I’m sorry your son writes those sorts of things, Mrs Rochester.” He said.